The Magic of Shalott
by Irishlass18
Summary: There was never one Lady;there was never one doomed kingdom-events occur in cycles unless one may learn from the past. Given an ultimatum on her deathbed,without promise for a life without magic,Lady must record the ruination of many. Hoping to avert the cycle of death, may it be broken with the acts of one woman?What happens when friendship,affection,and love blinds her way?
1. There was never one

_Author's Note: Don't own it, obviously. T__he characters in this story resemble in looks those from "Mists of Avalon" but in character they will reflect the movie, "Merlin" and TV series "Merlin" as well as the historical deviations of Tennyson and Mallory. The characters of Lancelot and Mordred are for certain from "Mists of Avalon" while Arther will be from "Merlin." I apologize if this appears to be like a crossover in ideas and such; I personally find that they work seamlessly together and will not confuse._  


* * *

There is a circular pattern to the cycle of life. You study one thing long enough and it can look like anything else-we dragons know this. There is never just one; things come in pairs, or trios. To say there was one Lady would be to say there was one sun, when all must know that there are many suns-known as stars. To say that one death equaled a finality of things would be to say that there was an end without any hope for a future beginning. Such was the fate of Shalott, and the Lady who dwelled there, but that was not the end.

In a simple ceremony she was laid to rest in a tomb outside the city. Afterwards, no one paid much heed to the pale, stone statue guarding the entrance-those who might have were also similarly deceased. Soon it was overcome with clambering vines and thick moss and thus passed as much into obscurity as the Lady herself.

The air had grown still since her death; no longer did it carry her melancholy songs into the surrounding countryside. All was now hushed, muted, as if the heavens above had decided to mourn the Lady where none other would. In this silence, a pair of young lads from a village nearby decided to explore the once enchanted isle. Fashioning a raft of reeds they braved the whirling river eddies and made their way across the expanse to shore. Up through pale, yellow aspens, their leaves flashing bright on the whisper of a breeze, the lads weaved their way to the white willows lining the edge of the isle, with undulating arms, reached out for a woman who would not return. A space of flowers gathered near the entrance to the towering castle heaved up a final surrender to encroaching weeds, the last blooms fallen to the ground. Everywhere there was evidence of her absence, everywhere there was confirmation of her passing. I remember the magical splendor of its height and glory, I had visited the Lady once when I was young-though I don't remember how long ago my younger years would have been.

Four grey walls, four grey towers, the castle was as bleak as the isle when the lads found it, with little within it to abate the chill that crept into their veins. Circling high into the northern most tower, the lads discovered the only remnants of what must have been a life within these walls. To one side of the room there was a small cot, the covers upon it pulled back as if awaiting its owner still. Beside that sat a loom and all around it were bundles of varied colors of fabric, some somber and some gay, piled high to the ceiling and cascading down again in a waterfall of textured color. The loom itself was broken and the weave upon it torn. Above the loom hung a gilded mirror cracked from side to side, the shadowy reflections in it dispersed and chaotic.

The lads spied an older weave, one depicting a joyous wedding banquet, flapping its edges against the far wall. Moving closer they found that it half lay inside the room and half was escaping out the window, as if it too wanted to flee the confines of the room as its maker did. As they pulled the weave back indoors, the thought of leaving fine craftsmanship in such a state left them with chills, they noticed down below an almost hidden pond. Covered with water-lilies in full bloom, the pure white of the flowers absorbed the warmth of the sun and radiated back a joyful gleam. Nearly blinded, the lads, so used to the solemnity of the rest of the isle, fell back and dropped the tapestry.

Though the Lady was cold beneath the ground, a feast for worms despite her beauty, the lads felt keenly the ghost of her presence. No longer wishing to encroach upon what was once her prison home, the lads left and told no one of what they had seen. In mist, the isle was soon obscured from all eyes and after some time erased from existence, taking with it the last of the Lady of Shalott.

Though this Lady passed away that is not to say that Shalott would remain erased. Few things stay hidden; such is the nature of magic; such is the magic of life.


	2. The awakening

Unspecified time-past or future-my draco mind is too vast to recall. This was the wakening of a Lady and the start of it all.

* * *

Death was coming for her. She felt His presence slithering up her body just as surely as she felt the warmth of her blood pool around her. Breathing was harder now; the air was thick as water and her chest felt like it was slowly caving in on itself. She'd lost all feeling in her legs almost as soon as the wound had been inflicted and, though she knew they were still attached, the frozen limbs refused to respond to her pleas for movement. Her hands were pressed over the wound, useless in their attempts to stem the flow of blood. Too much damage had been caused for there to be any hope. It had happened so suddenly, much too quickly to really understand how she came to be lying here.

Cold. She felt so very cold. If anyone were to ask her what she'd thought about during her last moments on earth she'd tell them ice. The only image in her head was of ice, not her family, not her home, not the things she'd done or wished she could've done. Cold, grey ice and nothing more. Was it fair that she was lying here in the prime of her life dying as she pondered the life cycle of ice? Perhaps not, but then again what was fair? She'd certainly never understood the concept. There was justice, there was mercy, there was no fair.

_"Justice…"_ Death whispered in her ear, the silken voice wrapping around her like a welcoming cloak. She wanted to close her eyes and give in to the seductive idea of surrender. _"Mercy…" _He coiled around her, seeping deep into the marrow of her bones. _"Do you truly know what justice means, or mercy?"_ Death was toying with her, drawing out her last moments. She welcomed it, anything to stay this side of the River Styx. _"Could you demand justice and mercy without flinching? Could you be fair?" _The words were thrown at her like a challenge and she wished for the strength to respond with more than a gasp.

_"What are you doing?" _Another voice joined Death. This voice was deeper, like the rumbling of thunder on a summer afternoon. _"Let her be. She is not long of this world." _She felt a jolt of awareness shiver through her body, her legs temporarily responding to the stimulation by jerking to the side.

Death spoke again, _"All the more reason to employ her. She passed all the other tests."_

_"And failed the last one. Why should we employ a failure to attempt to rescue another possible failure? The cycle must be broken"_ The rumbling increased and she became aware of the ground around her shaking from the sound of it.

_"Because only a failure can recognize another's weaknesses and avoid them." _Death responded, her body again jerking as if in agreement.

The rumbling suddenly increased, as did the vibrations, until the room around her split open and light from the heavens showered down on her. Angels did not sing, as she'd often thought they would when she ascended on high, but then again she was not ascending. In fact, she was still lying in a pool of her own blood, wondering if the last moments before death were always rife with insanity.

_"Very well. But there must be stipulations."_ The rumbling ceased and the vibrations stopped.

Death uncoiled from around her, welcome air flowing freely into her lungs, _"Understood."_

Lightning shot from the sky and engulfed her body, tearing her apart just as it knit her back together. When the pain abated she found that she could move and breathe again. Her arms and legs responded as before and her wound was gone. As she continued to study herself she noted that her clothes had altered to that of rich linen embroidered with fair gems, a style far from her usual taste. She rolled over and stood on wobbly feet. Her chestnut hair tumbled down over her shoulders and she noticed a white streak in it where there had been none before.

_"Come, Lady, and you will truly learn what justice and mercy are."_ She looked up to find the scene around her altered until she stood in the middle of a stone circle, a frail old man waiting for her in the mist.

She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came. Before she could become more alarmed the man stepped forward, his hand held up in what she assumed was a reassuring gesture.

"You will communicate with your hands not your voice." He gestured towards her feet and she looked down to find a folded cloth. Picking it up, the cloth unfurling with her movements, she found that it was as intricately sewn hunt scene. "This is how you will communicate." She glared up at the man who only smiled in return. "You will trace the actions of those around you in this manner, keeping record of all the justice and mercy, or the lack." She clenched the cloth in her hand, wanting nothing more than to scream. "You may not leave this place," she looked past him to see a castle emerging from the mists, four flower covered turrets jutting into the sky, "though others may sojourn here. You must never look to the south directly. If you violate these stipulations, if you fail in your duty, you will return to where I found you. Is that understood?"

She glanced down at the cloth in her hand, taking note of the dress and weaponry of the knights on horseback. She looked up and around, being careful to close her eyes and quickly pass over what she assumed was the south. On either side of the wide river lay long fields of barley and of rye, and through the field a road slithered parallel to the river. From here she could hear the farmers singing as they worked and merchant carts as they rolled by. She could not directly see anyone from this distance, only the flickering of metal scythes in the sun.

An island, or better yet, a castle on an island of mist surrounded by farmland that is where she must live? Weaving the tales of those around her instead of living the tales herself, that is what she must do? She turned her gaze back to the slight man before her. There really was no argument to be had. She'd wanted to escape the River Styx and so she had. With renewed determination for living she nodded her head, earning a broad smile from the man in response.

"Come then, my lady, and let me show you Shalott." He opened his arms wide and she ventured closer, surprised when he took her elbow and leaned into her as they moved towards the castle.

As they walked through the white willows and quivering aspens, a light breeze having chased away the mist, she noted the layout of the land. There was land a plenty for a garden and a field for farming. There were birds and deer darting through the wood. She could do worse than live here, of that she was well aware.

On and on he went, talking about the rules of her life. He showed her all the castle and the things she must do to its upkeep. She did not mind that she'd be alone, as long as she was alive. They climbed high up in the north tower and he opened up the casement for her view. Inside lay her loom and all around it were bundles of varied colors, some somber and some gay, but all piled high up to the ceiling. It was here that she knew she'd do her weaving.

"Come, Lady, come and weave." The man gestured for her to sit. She sat and stared at the loom, unsure of how or where to begin. The man moved some of the bundles aside and sat down. "Weave your life, Lady, your life before you came here."

And so she began, and weaved by night and day, the magic web she was called to weave, until at last she was done and the man looked at her work with a critical eye. She knew not how much time had passed, only that the man had burned through at least a dozen candles and her hands were shaking from fatigue.

"It is a fair start." He rolled up the weave and tucked it into his tunic, just as neatly as he'd brought her here. "Now go and start your life on Shalott." He disappeared as he'd come, with mist and mystery, and she was left wondering, how does one start a life alone, on an island of mist?

Unbeknownst to her, on another island of mist, a young male child was born at the moment of her arrival. Through him the fate of the kingdom of Camelot could be damned or saved. Of course if he did not learn of his responsibility in the events that were to unfold he would be doomed to repeat the mistakes those who had brought the Lady had sought to avoid.


	3. Pendragon's Dream

_Authors Note: Arthur looks like the TV series "Merlin" but a lot of his mannerisms are taken also from the TV series "Mists of Avalon" and the writings of Mallory and Tennyson._

* * *

This place was a dream, he understood that from the numerous times he'd visited it over the years-always in that time right before waking when one was dream walking. He'd first dreamed of it when he was a child, on the night after a spectacular fight with his father and the resulting blow had rendered him momentarily silly. That night he'd felt transported on dragon's wings and left at the mouth of a river, to float down it until he'd been washed ashore on the enchanted isle. Next he'd dreamt of it soon after first meeting Merlin and all the resulting shenanigans they fell into; this time he'd ventured further up the isle, past willows and aspens, until he'd seen the outline of a grey castle. When he'd first tasted the bitterness of love gone wrong he'd next dreamt of the island; braving further towards the castle until he saw the gardens just to the side and the moat with the crashing waves from surf and current alike.

Never had the dream been as vivid as it was now, to such an extent that he could reach out and touch the pale leaves of the aspens and feel the brush of the willow branches as they danced on the wind. He'd always caught glimpses of things, heard the pattering of animals on the leaves of the trees under which he stood, on occasion the whiff of a flower, but never anything substantial. Sometimes he had thought he could catch sight of just the hem of a gown or the flash of pale skin from a maid, but never had he been able to see her in full. He'd never told anyone of these dreams, they'd occurred infrequently enough to surprise him whenever they did return, only to expand further in his imagination-as if his dreams were weaving together a tapestry.

Arthur Pendragon, exhausted from the recent betrayal of Morgana and his own shift into near kingship due to his father's ill health, turned on his feet hesitantly, unsure if he should pursue the dream-state further or wait until he woke again. When a wind carrying leaves twirled around him, settling some of the leaves in his hair, he felt that perhaps he should move. These woods felt far too enchanted and he was quite tired of magic after all. His hand lightly resting on the hilt of his sword, Arthur stalked through the woods and headed towards where, by now, he instinctively knew the castle stood. Perhaps his utter exhaustion, his nervousness at having so publicly declaring his affection for Gwenhwyfar had taken its toll on him. He would not wake for some time yet. Did one have to fear what they encountered in dreams, no matter how real they felt?

Arthur had no answer for this when he emerged from the woods and found himself staring up at the grey castle, blinking against from where the sun lay just above it-almost like a beacon to draw him in. He glanced around, finding no sign of anyone else, before he ventured closer. From a ways off he could hear the water pushing and lapping against the sides of the moat and once he was on the bridge across it he glanced down ten meters to the water below. He nearly fell over when he immediately caught sight of naked, pale flesh-female-darting in and among the waves just below.

The woman seemed unaware of his presence, no surprise given the sound of the water, and unperturbed by the slight chill in the spring air if her state of undress whilst swimming was any indication. He moved closer to the edge of the bridge and-only due to curiosity he assured himself-studied the scene more intently. On the rocks closest to the castle he spotted her clothes and shoes and further up the rocks he could make out what looked like a small door, cleverly disguised to look like a rock leaning against the castle walls, cracked open. His eyes traveled back to the woman's figure just in time to watch her duck under the surf. She remained hidden for longer than he thought he would've been able to stand and when she did pop into sight again she held what looked to be a fish trap, heavily filled with fish. Tugging it along behind her the woman carefully made her way to the rocks and diligently worked to tug the trap up after her, safely away from the push and pull of the tide.

The woman was unashamedly naked. Her long chestnut colored hair-he noted what looked like a single streak of white near her right temple-clumped together and plastered against her glistening skin in snake-like tendrils. Even from this distance he could tell she was tall, her body svelte from applied use-as seen from this moment-and not mere courtly behavior. What sort of madman would allow his daughter or his wife to recover a fish trap in such a state? What sort of people lived in this castle? Arthur allowed himself to ponder these things for only a moment before he realized that he was in fact pondering a dream, after which he shrugged and continued on towards the main gate of the castle.

It was unlocked and he was able to push inside after only a few moments hesitation. There was no sound, all was eerily quiet-especially so given the size of the castle. He was loathed to call out, afraid of who or what he might alert to his presence, and so took to wandering around the halls and inner chambers quietly. No where did he spy evidence of any other presence aside from the woman, and he only found smatterings of her presence in a room here and there. Only when he found himself in the kitchen did he see more evidence of a life lived here. It looked to be a regular kitchen, fully stocked, complete with a warm fire in the hearth. He'd just moved towards it to fight against the chill he'd begun to feel when he heard from somewhere below the sound of a door closing and the tell-tale echo of feet on stone steps, coming towards the kitchen. Arthur laid his hand back on the hilt of his sword and maneuvered his body until he faced the only other door in the kitchen aside from the one through which he entered. It was only a breath later that the door pushed open and the woman came into view, the fish trap in one hand and a knife in the other.

She noticed him immediately and promptly dropped the fish trap, causing the latch to loosen and the fish that were surprisingly still lucid began to flap about the floor seeking escape. Her hand tightened on the knife, he noted, but not a sound came from her. Though by her eyes and her body stance she seemed alert, wary, though unafraid, she had yet to say a word. Seeking to break the tension that had built between himself and and a dream maiden, Arthur flashed what he felt was his most charming smile and bowed his head slightly.

"Forgive the intrusion, my lady. I am unaware of how I've been brought here, or where here is." He placed a hand over his heart, "I am Arthur Pendragon."


	4. The Tapestries

_Authors Note: This is again a strange compilation of events, ideas, and imaginings of the BBC series "Merlin" the serial "Mists of Avalon" and the writings of Mallory.  
_

* * *

Lady felt her heart leap into her throat at the sight of the man, Arthur Pendragon as he introduced himself. Though she'd been on the isle long enough to weave almost half a dozen tapestries she'd yet to see anyone, beyond that of the old man who'd brought her-and that had only been once in that time frame. She knew well who Arthur Pendragon was, despite having never met him before in all actuality-she'd been weaving the tapestry of his life long enough to recognize that glowing head of hair and flashing smile anywhere. He was the sun incarnate, and in many ways he seemed to know that-if his current stance and somewhat charming smile in the face of the unknown could be used as evidence for that.

She dropped her eyes and sheathed her knife, taking note of Arthur's hand lightly resting on his sword. She quirked a half smile to herself as she bent and started collecting her dropped fish. Despite his charming smile Arthur had been quite ready for a fight, had she offered one. Working quickly she managed to gather four of the six fish and place them back into the basket. She glanced up when she saw Arthur's feet move and watched as he finished gathering the other two. He held them out to her with that same smile. She nodded her thanks and allowed him to drop the fish into her basket before she latched it shut and stood to her full height again.

Arthur seemed to be a bit uncomfortable now, since she had yet to say anything-interesting how silence could cause such discomfort. He shifted on his feet, angling his body into a defensive stance should she again try to offer up a fight, when she started towards the table just past him. She heard more than saw him trail after her, curiosity and confusion both apparent in his stare. Setting the fish on the table she moved over to the wash basin and dipped the ladle in. She had fish scales and other such crud from the river caked on her body and would love nothing more than to wash herself clean. With Arthur's presence now, however, she knew there'd be quite a delay now.

"I apologize for intruding upon you," he was speaking again, standing off to the side in her peripheral vision, "I am uncertain how I came to be here." She nodded but made no effort to try to reply. Instead she drank from the ladle before rolling up her sleeves and dribbling some water onto her skin. As she rubbed her hands up and down her arms in an effort to get at least a small portion of herself clean Arthur spoke up again, "May I know who you are and where I might be?" She turned towards him, mostly so she could retrieve the towel next to him. "I have a sinking suspicion that you are an enchantress and that I am locked in a spell." His voice began to grow deeper, most likely because his confusion was turning into desperation the longer she remained silent. "I demand to know why you have brought me here and what you intend to do with me." His hand dropped to his sword again and from the narrowing of his eyes Lady knew that he would soon use the sword if she didn't choose her actions well enough.

Lady set aside the now soiled towel and offered Arthur a tentative smile. She gestured for him to follow her, keeping her hands in plain sight and making open palm movements to show her peaceful intentions. It took more than a few moments for Arthur to decide to follow her but follow her he did, all the way to the Great Hall. It was in this massively dreary room where she'd decided to hang the tapestries. Climbing up on her own in order to hang the lengthy pieces was quite a nuisance in and of itself, but given the number of tapestries she felt she'd end up weaving whilst on the isle, the Great Hall had been the most ideal place. There were only five in there now, the one she'd weaved of her own coming to the isle, the three she'd completed regarding Arthur's life up to this point, and then the one that had always been there. She'd not woven it, and from the looks of it it'd been there for some time already when she'd arrived.

Lady hoped that by showing these tapestries to Arthur he would understand that while, yes, she was an enchantress of sorts, it was not over him that she held a spell. She was cursed by the isle, cursed with the ability to see his life and the lives of those around him. She had yet to feel that this was a blessing. More than once already she'd nearly torn the loom in twain from frustration over the foolish behavior of this young man or his companions. So often they made selfish decisions that inevitably ended up in heartache and further ruin. Perhaps by showing him these things he would wisen up and she would be released from this curse? If she was released, however, would that mean she'd be returned to death or near to it, or would she be granted another lifetime elsewhere?

She sighed inwardly once they reached the door to the Great Hall. With a passing glance over her shoulder to ensure his presence, Lady offered Arthur a shy smile before she pushed open the door and stepped to the side. She gestured for him to enter but when he remained just behind her, his look one of incredulity, she shrugged and preceded him into the room. He kept his hand lightly resting on his sword as he inspected the room from the doorway and once satisfied that no foes lay hidden in the corners he ventured further in. She led him first to the tapestry depicting in general details who she was and how she'd ended up on the isle. All that really made sense among the swirling colors was the depiction of the castle, lightning bolts, the blurry image of the old man, and the profile of herself at the loom. For whatever reason when she'd tried to weave into the tapestry of her life before this isle the strands had immediately fallen apart and she was left with nothing. However, when she started here, with the lightning and such, it held together. She was not one to argue with magic, she'd learned that lesson well enough. If the old man and his magic demanded that her life before the isle be left a blank then so be it.

"This is you?" Arthur questioned, pointing to the tapestry. She nodded in response. He indicated the old man, "This man brought you here?" She nodded again and Arthur frowned. "There is something vaguely familiar about him." Lady raised an eyebrow and edged closer, hoping that he'd notice her own curiosity now. "I'm not sure where I've seen him before but yes he does seem familiar." He turned away from the tapestry and faced her fully again. "Why have you not spoken?" Lady pointed to her throat and shook her head. Arthur frowned and glanced back to the tapestry, and briefly at the others, before resting his eyes back on her again. "This is how you must communicate?" He indicated the tapestries and she nodded, relieved that he was smarter than his good looks seemed to make him out to be.

He moved further and took in the tapestry depicting his birth and the events of his early childhood. He was frowning by the time he moved on to the next tapestry, the one that depicted the birth of Lancelot-a man, as Lady understood from the old tapestry at the end of the Hall, who could bring about Camelot's downfall. She was unsure if Arthur was aware of that fact, however, when he merely shrugged and moved on to the next tapestry. The events in this tapestry were closely linked to both Arthur and Lancelot but were seen from the perspective of Morgana and Gwenhwyfar. After carefully studying this one as well he sighed and shook his head.

"It seems that your enchantment is more of a curse than anything," he glanced over his shoulder at her and offered her a sad smile, "to know of these things but to not have been there. Are you allowed to leave this place?" Lady shook her head and he nodded. "I assumed as much. There is no one else here with you?" Again she shook her head and this time Arthur chuckled. "How have you not gone mad from the isolation? If I had to live like you I would surely have gone mad before I finished the second tapestry." He looked down the hall towards the mammoth tapestry she'd not made. "Did you-" her shaking head cut off his question and Arthur immediately moved towards it.

Lady held back. She did not like to study it too often. She felt that it was an alternate reality of sorts, something that could happen should events not be altered or different decisions made. As she watched Arthur's shoulder's tense the further he moved down the length of the tapestry, his eyes darting this way and that taking in all the morbid details, she felt that perhaps he understood better than she what it meant and how to avoid it. When he got to the end, the part depicting the destruction of a kingdom and the death of its leader she thought she heard him gasp. Yes, perhaps it was right to show him this tapestry after all. When he turned and looked at her again his face was white, as if death had seized him, and he was panting. He staggered away from the tapestry until he was just within arm's reach. He surprised her when he reached out and laid a shaking hand on her shoulder.

"Please," his voice was thick and rumbled in the damp air around them, "take me from this place."


	5. A Humbled Stag

_Authors Note: This is again a strange compilation of events, ideas, and imaginings of the BBC series "Merlin" the serial "Mists of Avalon" and the writings of Mallory.  
_

* * *

He'd been cursed with the future in this place. That tapestry, the ominously dark and murky one that Lady had denied making, had most assuredly depicted the future, or at least the future that could be. He'd recognized himself well enough, as well as a few others, but once he'd made his way to the end, to the destruction of Camelot, he'd been struck dumb with fear. What must he do to prevent this? Could he prevent it, since it had long been woven into existence? Who could possibly have known such things other than an enchantress?

Arthur held a shaking hand against his head and closed his eyes. Lady had brought him back to the kitchen area, settling him down in one of the chairs in front of the fire with a mug of ale. She was behind him setting about making a meal, he'd lost track of time and knew not which one it would be, and had left him to muse over the tapestries on his own. He knew that Lady was not to blame for the dark tapestry and she seemed to be just as befuddled by it as he. When he'd come back to her after viewing it he'd seen pity in her eyes, as if she too understood that he was the stag in the tapestry and that it was his kingdom that fell to the wolf. But who was the wolf? Who was it that took his love, his kingdom, his life from him? Merlin had often cautioned him to be more aware of his friends as well as his enemies, to think like a dragon and act like a fox. Where in his life was he going to slip up and make a mistake, what was he going to do that would bring about the end of all that he, his father, and his grandfather had worked to achieve?

Lady clapped behind him and he turned to see two plates on the table. She'd fixed the fish apparently, with some vegetables and a large slice of bread. Arthur heard his stomach growl at the sight of the food and realized that more time must've passed than he'd originally thought. Just how long had he been staring at those tapestries anyway? He nodded to his accidental host and joined her at the table, waiting until she too was seated before he began to eat. The food was quite good, not that he should be surprised given the obvious fact that she lived on her own in this vast place.

"Thank you." He muttered between mouthfuls, his stomach dictating his speed. "For the food and for earlier." He gestured over his shoulder to indicate the great hall and the tapestries.

He watched her nod slowly, her eyes taking in his every movement no doubt. There was no possible way one could doubt her intelligence, not from the way she carefully observed actions and weighed her own reactions. Arthur felt that should she be able to talk she would most likely be able to advise kings and great dignitaries.

"I hope to not intrude upon your hospitality for long." He continued and she shook her head with a smile, as if to indicate that it was not a bother to her. "Do you know of how I may leave?" Her smile fell and she shook her head again. She was prisoner here then, held by a spell no doubt. He hoped that eating her food and looking at her tapestries didn't cleave him to the spell as well and that soon he might be able to rejoin his men, and his love. "What do you think I should do?"

Arthur was referring to his situation on the island but from the way her face grimaced he believed she was recalling the tapestry from before. She didn't respond right away and without pen and parchment or a ready needle and thread she had to rely upon gestures to mime out her response. From what he understood of her motions she felt he should bide his time on the island, wait until whatever or whomever had brought him here would take him away again. "Maybe you're right." He responded after she finished, giving her a small smile when she dropped her hands into her lap. "Some sort of enchantment brought me here and perhaps I must accomplish something here before I am taken back again." She smiled and nodded. "So," he leaned forward, "do you have any dragons to slay or trolls to fight?" She giggled.

* * *

Four days later and he understood well why she'd giggled. There was nothing on the island save for a few deer, rodents, birds, and the two of them, a far cry from anything he felt worthy of spell-breaking. At first he'd balked at her suggestions but then, understanding through her explanations that perhaps whomever had brought him here wanted him to be "humble" before leaving, he'd agree and a schedule was born between them. While she weaved in the morning she'd send him to the woods to check on her traps and bring back anything he found-the actual preparation of the meat was still a mystery he left to her to solve. In the afternoon they'd work together in the garden and check the fish traps-he also let her swim to the traps, though with his presence she kept her clothes on. In the evening she'd weave some more while he mended, with her guidance, any of the tools or clothing that had been damaged through use.\

He felt like a farm hand, a commoner, and chaffed against her instructions. She was kind about it, certainly, and did not lord over him the way many others might should they have found themselves in her position. Merlin, he knew, would have loved to have been in her position about now. Lady had been patient but firm, kind and reassuring but also obstinate in how things were supposed to be done. He'd gotten into the habit of asking her opinion on various matters when they came together for meals, ranging from relationships-namely love-to kingships. She always had an interesting viewpoint, one that often took him by surprise, and he found that many of her reasonings made sense.

"Do you think the future can be avoided?" He asked, once she stopped her weaving long enough to make eye contact.

They were sitting by the fire in the kitchen, it was evening out and while she was weaving another tapestry he was sharpening a few of her knives. Tomorrow would be the fourth day of his confinement and he was no closer to the secret of leaving than when he'd first arrived. Her nod made him pause his movements.

"How so?"

He watched as Lady tipped her head to the side before she smiled and slowly began to unravel her last few strands of cloth, her eyes moving from him to the weave, as if to indicate something.

Arthur frowned in thought, "Change the past?" Lady shook her head and slowly, deliberately, set about reworking the strands back into their original position, though this time they were altered only marginally. Arthur nibbled on his lower lip before responding, "Starting over?" Lady nodded, a bright smile on her face. "You think that the future may not be altered but that you can always start over?" She frowned and shook her head. "What then?"

She looked around the room before her eyes came back to him. With a firm nod, to herself no doubt, she set aside her weave and stood, moving closer to him. Arthur watched her curiously, unsure of what she intended, and only managed to squeak out a cry of protest when she hit him in the head, just hard enough to sting.

"What-" his question was cut off when she moved to hit him again though this time he ducked out of the way and reached up with one of his hands to grab her wrist. "What are you doing?"

She was smiling at him and pointed from her hand in his grip to his head and back again. Arthur blinked at her a few times before he started laughing. He dropped her hand and nodded, "I don't think I'll forget that for some time to come. You mean for me to learn from what I saw and prevent it?" She wobbled her head back and forth, as if to indicate part of his statement was correct and part of it not. "Or at least to learn from my mistakes and start over each time I make one?" She paused for a moment before she smiled and nodded. "While I appreciate you efforts to advise me, perhaps next time find some way to make your point without hitting me." He rubbed his head and listened to her wheezing laugh as she returned to her chair opposite him.


	6. Disappearances and Rescues

_The man depicted here will resemble more the same man in "The Mists of Avalon" TV series than the "Merlin" series, though he will be influenced by events in both. Again this is a strange combination of "Merlin," "Mists of Avalon," and the writings of Mallory._

* * *

The Stag of the tapestry had broken free of the island's spell within a fortnight of appearing, leaving her to suffer in it's solitude alone once more. Lady had awakened one morning to find Arthur gone, no trace of his ever coming. Apparently he'd learned whatever it had been the old man had wanted him to learn-and Lady still felt it had been the same old man who'd brought her that had brought he hadn't chaffed or balked at the work she'd given him towards the end of his time on the island, and more than once had actually done more than she'd expected or asked for.

It was odd, returning to her solitary ways, after so long with the Pendragon on her heels. He'd always questioned her, always needed guidance of some sort, always sought greater understanding or the world, of his situation in it, and of the possible future. They'd grown to appreciate each other in a way, he obviously found her advice helpful, or at least interesting, and she'd found his questioning, his desire to know more, intoxicating. She'd felt needed, appreciated, wanted in a way she'd never felt before.

The ground beneath her suddenly dropped but Lady was ready. With agile movements, she compensated the abrupt change in terrain and slid down the steep leaf-strewn hill, her bow still steady in her hands. The stag she hunted now continued to thunder through the brush across the stream, desperate in its attempts to flee her. She paused long enough at the bottom of the incline to note the direction of the stag and took off on a parallel course. This hunt, one that she took only once a season, was part of what kept her sane. The thrill of the chase reminded her of what life had been before the loom.

She had not bothered to count the days since she'd first come to be the Lady of Shallot but she knew how many webs she'd weaved. Twenty tapestries, each hanging from the great hall of her castle, had been completed since her arrival. She'd finished one since Arthur had left. Ornate depictions and full of interweaving stories, each had taken great time and many candles through the night. They were full of destruction and despair mostly, very little happiness or peace was to be found in the stories that passed by her isle.

Though time had obviously passed she noted that her appearance and health had remained the same. Not only was her loom enchanted, then, but she herself had become an enchanted being. The Merlin, as the old man called himself, had only visited a handful of times since her first arrival, once bringing with him a woman of regal countenance who called herself the Lady of the Lake. The Lady of the Lake did not seem to approve of her presence on Shalott but had apparently conceded to the plans of Merlin.

There was war upon the land from vicious outsiders but more than that there was upheaval among the ranks of those within the borders of the kingdom as well. Even as she weaved the tales that came to her in the night as dreams and visions, she longed to escape her isle and set things right. She alone could see the fatal mistake each made and more than once death could have been avoided had she been able to aid those in her weaves. Arthur seemed to act with greater care since his time on the island but even he was not immune to the difficulties of life.

She rushed around an oak in front of her and lept across a bend in the stream. She knew the stag would soon find itself cornered, the cliffs of the island at its front and right and her on its left. She had mere moments to close in on its position before the stag had opportunity to flee in the direction it had come. Her heart pounding in her chest and her lungs burning, she threw herself through the shrubbery until she was standing a few yards away from the cornered stag. She quickly took aim, not naïve to think that the stag would not attempt to rush her—she'd learned that lesson two seasons before. Her aim was true and the stag fell to its knees then slumped over on its side, her arrow protruding from its eye socket. Quickly shouldering her bow she approached the animal and set about gutting it, knowing she only had moments to do so before the meat began to pickle itself in filth.

Uncoiling the rope that had been tied around her torso, she tied it around the antlers of the stag and quickly threw the other end over the branches above her. She'd retrieve it later. It was more vital that she take the meat back to the castle and place it in the smoker or salt for preservation first. With only a little awkwardness, did she wrap the desirable meat and lash the bags to her back. She gathered the innards and heart into a separate sack and headed back towards the castle.

She'd long since learned all the nooks and crannies of the island. She knew where every deer herd preferred to feed, where the streams emptied out into the river, where the birds nested, and where the scattered rocks gave way to cliffs and then the river. She'd made this isolated island her home in every way she knew how. She had a garden of herbs and vegetables; she'd cultivated an orchard of apples; she had set up routines and traditions to stick to in order to create some semblance of normalcy.

It was one such tradition that she was fulfilling by diverting to the stone circle at the greatest height of the island. After every kill she took the innards and heart to the circle and left it there for whatever animal wanted it. This was the place where her blood stopped and her enchanted life began; it was only fitting that this would be the place where she'd leave the evidence of another life stopped there as well.

She dumped out the contents in an unceremonious fashion and did not pause for any special rites. The deed was done, no use in making a big flourish of it. She carried on down towards the castle content with her kill. It was when she was almost upon the drawbridge that she noticed him. Far below, in the breakers that crashed around the moat that separated her castle from the main part of the island, was a man, and even from this distance she could tell it was not Arthur. She leaned over the rock wall and peered more intently, trying to discern if he was alive or dead. When she saw his arm jut upwards to brace against a rock she jerked back as if stung.

She hurried into the castle and set aside the meat and her bow and quiver before rushing down the steps that lead to the dungeon and through that the door that led to the rocks by the bottom of the moat. Her sword was still strapped to her side, her knife also there; she did not know who this man was and as he was the first man she'd met who'd come to her island by physical means-Arthur had most definitely been by magical-she didn't know what to expect.

The door protested against her movements but she wrestled it open and stepped out onto the slippery landing. The man continued to fight against the surf only a few feet from her, unaware of her presence yet. Bracing herself against the unknown, she cautiously made her way across the rocks until she was within arm's length of the man. Facing away from her, he still did not know her to be there and she could not alert him to it without touching him. He looked as if he'd been struggling against the tide for some time.

She'd come to understand the ways of the river and her location near where it emptied out into the sea. She was surprised that he hadn't been sucked back into the river and then out to sea. If she did not extend help of some kind it looked as if fatigue would win out and he'd be lost. When she noticed another relatively large wave moving towards him she made her decision. With no warning to him she surged forward and laid hold of his arm. His head turned and his eyes found hers. Fear and intrigue battled in his hazel gaze. She ignored his feeble attempt to jerk out of her grasp and hauled him towards her just as the wave crested over the rock where he'd once been. As his body fell atop hers she felt the wave reach them. She quickly lodged her feet into the rocks beneath her and wrapped her arms around his body. The water was icy and stole her breath but she kept her hold. His head was cradled between her head and shoulders, his arms pinned to his sides within her embrace. He seemed to comprehend what she was doing and so did not fight her anymore, if he'd even had the strength to do so.

When the wave receded, she opened her eyes and found the man staring at her. His eyes were glazed from fatigue and most likely a growing fever. She wasted no time in staring into the windows to his soul and instead pushed him off just enough to stand. He attempted to stand as well but could only manage to fall back upon the rocks, groaning from the pain his movements caused. She rolled her eyes at him briefly before she bent and pulled one of his arms around her shoulders. He seemed unsure of her efforts but again didn't fight her when she hauled him to his feet and together they hobbled away from the slippery danger and up to the landing. She let him rest against the wall while she opened the door again. It was slow going up the many stairs. He was panting and shivering from a cold sweat by the time they made it to the kitchen.

She let him drop into the chair she kept by the ever present fire and moved off to find something for him to drink. His head lolled to the side and his eyes started to close as he huddled in on himself, obviously chilled to the bone. She could not help but note that her mundane life of weaving tales just got a lot more interesting with his presence. His appearance was so jarringly contrasted to Arthur's that she was left shaking her head to herself when she returned and pressed a goblet of cider into his hands.

After he drank the glass and handed it back he seemed to be revived enough to speak. She grimaced when he first asked, "Who are you?" He studied her carefully, obviously taking note of her breeches, plaited hair and weapons, his gaze sharp though still weak. "Where am I?"

She sighed, the only audible noise she was able to make was breathing after all. She pointed to her throat and shook her head, hoping that he'd understand. It took a moment but when realization dawned on his face she gave a slight smile. Though weak he apparently was not an idiot.

"You cannot speak?" She shook her head and he frowned. "Who else is here?" She held up her fingers in a circle and his eyes widened. "You're alone?" She nodded; again glad that he could understand thus far without her having to dance a jig of gestures for comprehension. "How do you manage?" She dropped her head and pressed her fingers into her temples, already getting a headache at the thought of how to describe that process to him. "Never mind, I'm sorry that would be difficult to answer." She gave him a slight smile before moving to the side to retrieve a few more logs for the fire. "You cannot speak and you are here alone, but that still does not answer my question of where am I?" He stayed seated as he watched her stoke the fire before leaning against the stone mantel to face him again. "Do you have parchment? Can you write?"

She tipped her head to the side and frowned. She'd never tried writing before. In fact, she didn't even know if parchment and ink were on the island. When the man suddenly sneezed violently she put aside the thought of parchment and moved forward. She gestured for him to stand again. He did so after struggling against the blanket and she quickly moved his arm to rest over her shoulder. She gave him a slight smile before she began to basically carry him from the room. He was not light and she too was heaving and sweating by the time she got him to the closest available sleeping chamber. There was trouble in setting him down on the bed and she ended up falling on him in the process. He only grunted in response before she hauled herself upright again. She held up her hand and indicated that he wait while she hurried from the room.

Back in the kitchen she piled some of the wood in her arms and carried it back to his chamber. When she returned she found him in the same position that she'd left him, hunched over on his side, half on the bed and half off. She left and returned again, this time with some coals to help start the new fire. It took longer than expected but once ignited the fire began to slow process of heating the room to a more comfortable level. She noted, as she stood to face him again, that outside a storm had begun to pound away at the castle walls.

She approached the bed and nudged his foot. He raised bleary eyes and watched as she mimicked the action of undressing.

"You want me to disrobe? Why?" She placed her hands on her hips and glared at him as if he were stupid. "What will I wear in the mean time?" She shrugged before pointing to the bare skin on her wrist. Before he could protest she mimicked shivering and faked a sneeze and cough. "Yes, yes I understand. If you please?" He indicated the door with his gaze and she sighed before leaving.

She stood outside for only a few moments before she heard a curse then a thud. Rushing back in she found him shirtless with his breeches around his ankles, having fallen over after getting thrown off balance. A feeling almost foreign to her as it had been so long bubbled up from her belly and she found, to her great pleasure and his embarrassment, herself clutching her stomach and laughing. It was more of a breathy laugh than usual but still it was a laugh and it felt good.

"Please." He rolled over, doing his best to remain decent by holding his discarded shirt over his lap. "This is difficult enough as it is."

Wiping the tears away from her eyes she approached him. He tried to scoot away but she held up her hand for him to sit still. Doing her best to avert her gaze, more for his comfort than her own, she pulled his breeches off his ankles and held out her hand to help him up. He hesitated, obviously debating how decent he could remain by moving again, before he too sighed and accepted her help. She managed to get him settled under the blankets without seeing much more than his rear—she'd be honest and admit it was nicely shaped—and his chest—also quite nice. By the time all was said and done he was shaking from fatigue.

She made to move from the room in order to make some porridge when his hand catching hold of her wrist stopped her. Once she looked down at him in response he let go of her wrist and retreated to a proper distance.

"Thank you, for your kindness. I am sorry-" she shook her head before he could continue and he gave her a weak smile in return. "Perhaps we will find a way to communicate before too long. In the meantime I am Lancelot." He stopped talking when a fit of coughing suddenly seized him.

She frowned and patted his shoulder before quickly leaving. When she returned with the porridge some time later, having gotten distracted by taking care of the meat and cleaning up her weapons as well as changing into a dry dress, she found him asleep. Loathed to wake him, she stoked the fire again before pulling a chair closer to the bed. She did not trust his health on his own and so settled herself in for a long and very uncomfortable night.


	7. Old Dreams Awaken

_This is where the "Mists of Avalon" takes a stronger role than "Merlin" in the backstory but definitely keep in mind that Lancelot is still very much half-n-half from both TV shows, as well as Mallory, in looks and character, leaning heavily on the looks of "Merlin" but mannerisms of "Mists of Avalon."  
_

* * *

He dreamt of seeing Gwenhwyfar again, only this time Morgaine did not close the mists. He was able to go to her, stroke her hair, taste her sweet lips, and hold her close. But just as he did these things, he saw a stag approach them atop the hill by the stone circle. It was large, larger than any he'd ever seen, and on its head was a crown. He felt drawn to the stag; as if by touching the stag he might be infused with an unknown power. The stag stopped by Morgaine's side and together they looked at Gwenhwyfar and himself with pity. The pleasure he'd gained from Gwenhwyfar began to curdle into a sense of remorse and he found himself wishing for the mists to envelope him but they would not.

Even as he extracted himself from her embrace, Gwenhwyfar pursued him. He tried to approach the regal stag and Morgaine but the mists had descended and he was cut off. He could make out his mother Vivane's face in the mist and a look of disappointment and pain marred her features. Fear suddenly seized him and he was struck to the spot. He watched as a sword emerged from the mists. He knew it would end his life but he could not move, even as it first began to pierce his skin and drive its way into his heart, he could not move. He could only throw his head back and scream from the pain.

He jerked awake, his breath coming in gasps and the side of his face stinging. In the faint light from the fire he found the woman standing over him, her hand drawn back as if about to strike. It took him a moment to discern that she had, in fact, already struck him and that was what had awoken him. He closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to pull himself out of the dredges of fatigue and clear the mists from his mind. He still felt weak but not nearly as bad as the day before as his fever was now gone.

He felt her hand touch his shoulder and he looked up to find her holding a glass. He nodded and allowed her to help him sit up enough to drink the honeyed water. He noticed that she was now wearing a gown and that she no longer carried a visible weapon. When he'd first seen her fully in the kitchen he had been alarmed. There had been blood smeared across her tunic and breeches and if he hadn't spotted the freshly cut meat on the great table behind her he would've feared for his life. She'd had the look of a wild woman about her, though her gaze held intelligence and care.

He pulled back from the glass and nodded, grateful when she helped him sit up some more until he was leaning against the cool wall behind him. He glanced from the woman to the fire. He noticed a large pile of ash where there had been none before. Had it only been a day? He looked back to the woman and watched as she sat back down in a chair by the bed, her hands resuming their work of embroidery.

"How long have I been asleep?" His throat hurt and his voice came out as more of a growl than he expected.

The woman held up both hands and his eyes widened when he saw her long fingers count out six.

"I've been asleep for six days?" She nodded. "How-?" He narrowed his eyes on the glass then looked back to find her glaring at him, obviously not pleased at where his thoughts had strayed. "I apologize for the accusation, I just don't understand how I could have slept for six days without the aid of a potion." She pointed to her head and shivered again and he nodded. "Yes I understand I had a fever but, oh never mind." He raked a hand through his hair, grimacing at how filthy he felt.

He looked over to find the woman holding out the cloth she'd been embroidering to him. He raised his eyebrows in question but took the cloth. On it he saw an island in a river with a castle on the island. Above the island were the words, 'Lady of Shalott.' When her hand reached forward and traced over the words he looked up to find her pointing at herself. "You are the Lady of Shalott?" She nodded, a look of satisfaction on her face. "But what is your name?" She frowned and for a moment she made no attempt to respond until she leaned forward and pointed. "Lady? You're name is Lady?" She shrugged then nodded. "That is an unusual name for an unusual lady." She snorted at his comment and he smiled. When he moved to sit up more he caught whiff of his stench and frowned. "May I trouble you lady for directions for a bath? I find myself quite unpleasant to live with."

She snorted again and nodded. She stood and turned around. When she was facing him again she held a long robe in her hands. It was obviously made for a woman but he had yet to catch sight of his clothing as another option. He raised his eyebrows at the robe but she merely shrugged, though he caught sight of an amused smile tugging at the corner of her lips. He sighed but took the robe and waited until she left before he pulled the blankets from his body and carefully stood. It felt odd to be moving so much after so long abed and his movements were awkward but it was better than still lying there.

He still could not comprehend how he'd managed to stay asleep for six days or how he even came to be here, wherever here was. Thinking back, he'd only just parted from Avalon and his mother, having made the decision to fight despite her reservations, when he was suddenly thrown into the river. The current, stronger than ever before, had swept him far from the reach of his companions in the boat and he'd found himself struggling to stay afloat, his sword, leather armor and cloak weighing him down. It'd only been after he'd unbuckled his sword belt and pried the leather and cloak from his body that he'd surfaced long enough to find himself being carried by an island. By sheer luck he'd been washed into a rocky ravine where he'd battled against the current to stay perched on the rock he'd first laid hold of.

He tied the robe tight and slowly moved towards the door. Perhaps his mother had caused it to happen, her displeasure over his disobedience manifesting itself in this accident. He frowned. His mother was conniving enough to do that if she thought his actions in battle would lead to harm for Avalon or the kingdom of Uther. She'd taken great care to maintain the old ways even in the face of the threat of Christianity.

Lancelot opened the door and found Lady leaning against the wall in a most unladylike manner. He could not quite grasp what sort of character she had. It was obvious that she was capable and independent; she'd somehow carved a way of life on the island in this dank castle all alone. She also had a heart for caring or else he was sure she would've left him on the rocks to be washed away. He could not decide whether or not she was of noble birth, however, as her mannerisms did not reflect the refinement of most nobility and yet she still held herself with a confidence that did not match the peasants.

When she took note of her presence she immediately moved forward and made to pull his arm around her shoulders again. He resisted and she looked up at him in confusion.

"Please, Lady, allow me to walk a bit on my own. If my stench is enough to cause me to grimace I don't want to make you suffer as well."

She snorted and shook her head but allowed him to move about on his own. She maintained a close walk beside him though, and as they made their ways down the stairs, he got the distinct impression that her hands were ever at the ready to seize his shoulders and haul him back against her if he even hinted at losing his balance.

She led him to the kitchen where he waited by the fire as she left to retrieve a washbasin. There was already a cauldron full of water over the fire. As he waited he glanced around the kitchen. She kept it clean and well-organized, though he supposed it would be more difficult to make things dirty and unorganized with only one person to look after. When she came back, hauling the rather large washbasin as if it weighed nothing, he again had to ponder who exactly this woman was and how she'd come to be on this island.

He knew of no island called Shalott, nor did he know of any old island castles such as the one in which they were in. All around he felt a particular air of enchantment and he wondered if his mother had had a hand in both his accident as well as Lady's presence here. After she poured the steaming water she nodded to him and quickly left. He quickly disrobed and lowered himself into the water, grateful for its soothing warmth. He'd only meant to wash away his stench and soak for a while but his body betrayed him and soon he found his eyes drooping, the strength from before leaving his body. A firm hand on his shoulder jerked him out of the shadowy land between wakefulness and sleep and he found Lady kneeling by the basin, a look of amused concern on her face.

"I must've fallen asleep." He moved to stand up but stopped when he quickly remembered his state of undress. He glanced up to find her holding a cloth out to him with her head averted. Even from this angle, though, he could see a smile on her face and he wondered just what it was about his efforts at maintaining his modesty while in her presence that amused her. He quickly dried himself and dressed, she had brought his clothes, now clean, and laid them on the table near the basin. Once finished he spoke, "I'm decent." She turned around, her amusement not hidden at all now. He smiled in return, "What is so amusing to you?" She shrugged, the smile not leaving, then gestured for him to sit.

After he sat, he noticed that while he'd been asleep she'd replaced the cauldron over the fire and had made porridge to simmer. He marveled at how deeply he'd managed to sleep during that time or how quickly she'd managed to move about. She dished out two bowls and sat across from him. They ate in silence, only broken when she stood and poured them some glasses of mead. After they finished and she'd cleared away the dishes and he'd helped her pour out the used water from the basin before returning it to its storage, she led him from the kitchen and down the corridors. He followed her in curious silence.

It was daylight outside and so there was no need for candle, though at times the corridors grew dark and dreary. It took him by surprise, then, when she pushed open a large wooden door and he found himself standing at the entrance to a brightly lit great hall. Large windows lined both sides of the hall and on the walls between each window hung large, colorful tapestries. He moved from her side and drew closer to one of the tapestries, the detailed workmanship too much to be ignored. It took him only a few moments of study to come to the shocking realization that on this tapestry pieces of his life had been woven.

He threw a startled glance over to Lady and found her standing stoically at his side, her hands clasped together in front of her. He opened his mouth to question but she moved forward and pointed to an old man standing beside a tall woman. Given the context of the scene around the pair he could only surmise that the man was Merlin and the woman his own mother.

"That's how you came to be here?" She nodded, her hands moving back to clasp in front of her. "You did all this?" She nodded and he looked back to the tapestry, his eyes landing on a scene that depicted the crowning of Uther. "They have given you the ability to see all of this?" He gestured to the tapestry in front of him and the others beside it and behind him. She nodded and he felt his stomach clench, out of fear or anger he did not yet know.

Here was a woman privy to every action and event of not only his life but the lives of all those in the kingdom, so it seemed thus far, and here she weaved out their tales on tapestries, to be displayed for any to see. Of course, he had to admit, no one could see these unless they made their way to the island, which, given the fact that Merlin and his mother were to blame for her presence, he was fairly certain no one could just happen upon the island without their aid.

"Why?" He turned to face her, finding displeasure in staring at the otherwise beautiful tapestry. She glanced at him for more clarification and he frowned, "Why must you weave these things?"

She paused a moment before she suddenly reached up and began to loosen the ties of her dress. He made no move to stop her, his curiosity stayed him. He only watched as she used one hand to hold the dress while with the other she drew it down just enough for him to see a large scar just beside where her heart would be. There could be no natural survival from such a wound and with startling clarity he understood that her only reason for living was to do the bidding of Merlin and his mother. She looked up at him to see if he understood and he nodded, his jaw clenched. He averted his eyes as she moved to lace up the dress once more.

They were more calculating than he'd ever thought, his mother and Merlin. But for what purpose did these tapestries serve? No one but Lady was here to see them, and why should she gaze on them when it was she who made them? He looked down the hall to the very end and noticed that on the wall behind the seat of honor was a large and very faded tapestry. He pointed towards it in question and she shook her head. She had not made it. He frowned and moved towards it. The closer he got the colder the room became. It was an unnatural cold, one that seeped into his bones and made him shiver anew.

Once he reached it he had to stand close to make out any details, the threads having long ago faded and begun to fray. He could only see snippets of details, some reflected those he'd already seen in Lady's tapestry, but most were different. They appeared darker, more sinister and destructive than even the pain she'd managed to capture in the others. He moved further down the tapestry until he came to a scene that made his blood run cold. It reminded him of his dream. There, before him, was a large stag with a crown on its head. Beside it stood a robed woman with long black hair and beside her was a large wolf. There were fatal wounds on both the wolf and stag and blood was on the ground beside them. Above this scene there stood a man and woman, locked in an embrace, but with mist descending upon them. To the side of the couple was a castle in ruins.

What did this mean? Nothing of this nature had happened yet, as far as he knew. Could it be the future? Why had he dreamt something vaguely resembling such a scene? He jerked when he felt a warm hand touch his shoulder. Lady looked at him with a mixture of pity and understanding, as if she knew why he felt such sudden terror.

"Do you know what this means?" She shook her head, though he noticed that for the first time she did not maintain eye contact. Perhaps she knew more than she was willing, or able, to explain just yet. He sighed and looked back to the ominous tapestry. "I dreamt something akin to this." He pointed and she nodded. "You brought me out of it." He looked over to her and found her smiling softly at him. He rolled his shoulders and shook his head. "Well, Lady, let us leave this place." She nodded and took his elbow, either out of societal norm or because she still feared for his weakness he could not tell.

She gently led him from the room and he felt relief when she closed the door behind them. If he never saw those tapestries again he would be satisfied. They were a curse. He looked over at Lady for a moment and noticed for the first time a sadness about her countenance. She was cursed, this he now understood. She was cursed to record the deeds of those she did not know, unable to avert any destruction, and would have to do so until her purpose, whatever that may be, was fulfilled.

Pity for her plight filling his heart, he placed his other hand upon hers. She looked at him for clarity and he merely smiled. She maintained eye contact for a moment and he noticed for the first time how her eyes resembled that of a doe before she smiled and nodded and continued to lead him around the castle, showing him the life she led in such isolation.


	8. Raft Building

_Mallory, "Merlin," and "Mists" all decide the fates of these characters._

* * *

It did not take long to show him around the castle to a degree that he could come and go as he pleased. More than once he'd been surprised at her ingenious ways of coping with life alone. He'd even asked her to teach him a few tricks, which she'd laughingly done so, such a contrast to Arthur who had wanted nothing to do with it all until she'd reminded him of his "humbling". Lancelot's first few days on the island were spent recuperating and merely exploring the castle, often times keeping close at her side since he found the isolation to be more disturbing than comforting, something he shared in common with Arthur apparently. At first Lancelot seemed content to regain his strength while at the same time exploring her castle and island. But as the days passed and his strength returned, she noted a restlessness grow inside Lancelot. Arthur too had been restless, but his restlessness had been more resigned, as if he'd known he was supposed to wait for something. Lancelot instead was eager to return to the fight, his life from before, of this she was certain.

He was a man of action after all. He was not a man for seclusion and contemplation. His body had been made for the fight, his mind for strategy and purpose. She knew that it was the very things that would take him away that she personally held the most affinity for. Had she the choice she too would be one for action and the fight but her curse held her back. Though it had saved her life it also killed her in a way. Forever to dwell in one place, doing one thing, that was a sentence of death to most, and especially herself. She too yearned to leave the isle of secrets but she knew that if she attempted to leave with him, though he had not voiced an invitation, she would die as she had been doing before. Perhaps, one day, death would be worth while. But as of yet she was happy to still be living.

Not wanting to hold him back from his fate, whatever that may be, and though she was loathed to lose the comforting company he now offered where Arthur once had, she gave him an ax and took him to the forest. She helped him choose the best trees to fell and left him with this new project. The only way off the island for him would be to make a way. There were no boats, no bridges, and the river was entirely too swift and wide to swim, as he now knew personally. He would have to construct a raft of sorts, something neither of them had done before. It would take time, and trial and error, but at least now he had a purpose again.

With this goal in mind, Lancelot went through the following days with cheer. His cheer brought a smile to her melancholic face and they soon fell into a routine of sorts. They would break the morning fast together, where he would often regale her with curious and perhaps exaggerated tales of his childhood and she would return in kind, though at a much more guarded rate. She'd fallen into the habit of carrying scraps of cloth and thread around with her so that she could quickly sew out responses when needed. It was not ideal but it helped. Most of the time, however, it seemed that he could mostly understand what she wanted to convey without having to make much more than gestures. At least, he was this way after a fortnight together. She found him to be a keen observer, almost as good as she, and so he quickly learned to discern her moods and wants.

After the meal, when he left to continue working on his raft, she would retire to her tower to weave. Come luncheon hour sometimes she would retrieve him from his work and sometimes he would wander up to the tower to fetch her. She knew he was reluctant to come near her weaves, fearing what he would see. She could not blame him, especially not after what he'd seen on that first day.

She knew in her heart that it was he who had been the man holding that woman, the man who helped bring about the destruction of the kingdom. Of course, that tapestry had been old and, as she understood from its state of disrepair and fading, was only one possible future of many. Perhaps Merlin had caused both Arthur and Lancelot to come here in order to see this future so that they could try to alter it, if one could alter one's fate that is. From the way he avoided the great hall as well as keeping his eyes averted whenever he did venture into her tower, she felt that he knew this fact in his heart as well.

At noon, they would eat their luncheon outside, weather permitting. He'd taken a fancy to having her show him around the island and together they would explore the island for the first few hours after luncheon. He found her aversion to looking at the south, and towards the main castle of the kingdom as he explained to her later, to be quite curious but never did he try to get her to break that promise that she'd made. He merely would help her move backwards whenever they did venture southward on the island. He offered to describe to her what she could not see but she'd declined, feeling this to be a cheat of sorts.

In the time that he'd been there she'd shown him most of the island and had only kept the cavern springs a secret. She'd only found them a few days previous to his arrival, so Arthur had not been privy to them, and had yet to fully explore them. She knew that they were probably her favorite place on the island, with the natural spotlights from the breaks in the earth above, the bright stone walls and floors, the flickering light bouncing off the fools gold trapped in the rocks, and the sound of gentle gurgling from the spring itself. Perhaps she would show this to him later.

After exploring they would return to their respective corners of the castle and work until supper. After finding out that he knew how to play the lute, a fact she'd laughed at and he'd not tried to defend himself for, she'd pulled one down from an unused bedroom and often he would play after supper. Over time he'd taught her a few of the court dances, which were hard for her to execute on her own once he would sit down to play again, but they had some good laughs about it. She apparently was a quick learner but not the best at performances. He, on the other hand, took to performing like a fish to water. He was indeed born to shine.

She relished those moments of touch that passed between them. Whenever he would take her elbow to help her up stairs or through brambles, though she in actuality needed no help. Whenever he held her hands in his own during the dances he taught her. She knew there would soon come a time when there would be no option for touches. While she would not press him for more she did enjoy what she could get. With Arthur there had been no touches, aside from when she'd struck him. They'd maintained a cordial separation, neither wanting to breach the space between. With Lancelot, however, Lady greatly desired to warm herself in the light of his charm.

The level of domesticity of their routine was a bit alarming for her though. With each passing day, and the deepening of the intimate friendship they now shared, she felt a bittersweet aura creep over the castle and into her bones. She'd grown so accustomed to knowing that he would be at a certain place at a certain time, that she could expect him to do or say a certain thing, and that no matter what, they would always spend some time together during the day, it was all leading up to a painful separation.

He would not stay, that was not even an option. They did not speak of his departure, they did not need to. It was a simple fact. He did not belong here. She didn't either, at least not technically, but at least he had the ability to leave. She had yet to tell him of her inability to leave but she doubted that it would be an issue. Most likely he had someone waiting for him back on the main shore. If not now then he soon would. A man such as Lancelot would not long be alone.

A knock on the door brought her out of her thoughts. She looked up from her weave to find Lancelot poking his head through, a smile tugging at his lips.

"I see you have been the one to forget the time today." His skin was darker after so many hours out in the sun. She felt it made him look ruddier and healthier than the pale skin of before. He stepped in and moved closer. She raised her brows at his movements; he had yet to come so fully into her tower room. He was looking at her weave, surprise on his face. She glanced back at the weave, only seeing the figures of a stag headed man and masked woman lying together in a cave. "I know this scene. That is part of the annual Beltane Rites. I was to participate in it." He looked only a little longer before he sighed and moved back towards the door. "Are you hungry? Your traps have gifted us with a few fish this afternoon."

She gave a nod and stood. Fish would be a welcome change from the deer jerky they'd been working on since her kill the day he'd arrived. She followed him down the stairs and into the kitchen where she saw he'd already laid out their luncheon fare. She smiled her thanks and took her seat. They ate in silence for some time and it wasn't until she began to rise from the table that he called her to pause.

"My raft is ready." He was looking at her with a mixture of pleasure and hesitation. She knew he was hesitating because of the nature of his departure. It would be difficult for him to return since her island was not readily seen through mists from the shore and the currents were never in any rafts favors. "I will depart tomorrow morn."

Despite the pang his words caused her she nodded, a patient smile on her lips. She'd known this day would come and would not dwell on it. She stood and took their dishes from the table to clean. She heard him follow and felt him press closer to her side at the wash basin than was necessary. He dried the dishes as she washed them. She smiled to herself. He probably participated in much more domestic activities here than he'd ever done before.

"Lady," he reached out one of his hands and rested it on hers, stilling her movements, "come with me." She looked over at him, her brows raised in question. "You could still weave and sell your wares for profit. You could become quite an accomplished merchant actually. Many nobles are in need of skilled weavers."

She turned one of her hands up and clasped his. She gazed at their hands and then up at his near pleading expression. She gave him a sad smile and shook her head. She used her other hand to reach up and laid it over her heart. She patted against her chest then stopped and closed her eyes. She let a beat pass before she opened her eyes again, hoping he understood.

"You will die if you leave?" He questioned, her hesitant nod answering. He sighed, squeezing her hand briefly before going back to drying the last of the utensils. "Then you must remain here." It was a statement but she nodded. "I will leave you tomorrow morn," she hesitated in her movements but nodded again after a moment, "and it will be unlikely that I will see you again, is that not so?" He looked up as he set aside the last utensil, angling his body to face hers.

She nodded, also turning to face him, her lips still turned up in a small smile. He studied her face for a moment before he reached out and traced her cheek with the back of his hand, one of the most deliberately affectionate touches he'd ever given her. The pang in her heart returned at the touch and she blinked back the evidence of pain. She allowed another moment to pass before she stood up to her full height and reached forward, taking hold of his hand in her own. Her movements surprised him but he made no move to retract his hand. She tugged on his hand and smiled when he allowed her to lead him from the room. If this was the last day she was to spend with him then she would leave the weaving for tomorrow. Today she would show him the caverns; she wanted to share that place with him at least.

She glanced back at him and found him giving her a smile in return. He moved faster until he was beside her instead of behind her, their hands still clasped. Tomorrow he would move beyond her and she would once again be left alone to her weaves. She would only glimpse him in her weaves from tomorrow onward. That fact had her quickening her pace, eager to wash away the pang of sorrow with the spring water.


	9. Becoming One

_Backstories are muddled in the different origins of "Merlin," "Mists of Avalon," and "Mallory" but hold closely to "Merlin."_

* * *

Lancelot followed her in silence. She'd quickened her pace, though her grip on his hand remained steady. He squeezed it lightly and earned a soft smile in response but little else. He knew she was preoccupied in thought over his imminent departure. He too couldn't quite wipe away the melancholy that thought brought him. Though the day was beautiful, it held a tinge of darkness for him. He did not realize until now, walking so close to Lady in the copse of trees for perhaps the last time, that leaving would bring him such remorse.

When he'd finished the raft and tested it in the small stream and found it sound, he certainly didn't feel the amount of pleasure and satisfaction that he'd thought he'd feel. At first he'd given a shout of joy and jumped up and down like the lad he'd once been; but upon standing firm again, and returning the raft to the shores, he was seized with a panic. He would leave and, even without asking, he felt in his heart that Lady would stay. She had a duty here and she was a diligent worker, as faithful as any sworn knight. He'd still asked her, even giving her the option of using her otherworldly craft, but had not been surprised to find that she could not leave. Perhaps if she could, and if he'd given her better assurances than just money and vocation-he was not a complete imbecile to think that's what she'd truly desire from him-she might've. But as it stood, he would leave her in the morn.

He treasured the times that he'd been able to steal her away from her loom, have her explore the island with him, share moments of simple joy with her. She was mischievous like Morgaine had once been and more than once he'd found himself the recipient of an elaborate jest. He repaid in kind and more than once had earned a stinging smack on the arm in retaliation, but it was always worth it. In the times they spent in silence by the fire, he'd grown used to her quiet and reassuring presence, a spark of wit inside her that could shine out of silence and leave him gasping for breath from laughter, in that she reminded him of the woman he could not have, the woman who belonged to Arthur. She'd become a center piece of his day. He would wake knowing that she'd be in the kitchen to greet him with a smile, and most likely some smidgen of food smeared on her face or clothing. He enjoyed the "conversations" they shared, the debates they had. He especially enjoyed the trading of talents they'd begun, his dancing and lute playing for her card games and knife throwing-a talent that had taken him quite by surprise. There were many things about Lady that took him by surprise but then again he'd grown used to being surprised by her. She was a light in the darkness that had surrounded his life previous to coming ashore. He was an orbiting sphere to her light, he knew this now quite clearly, and when he left, his life would be bereft of her light.

It would be unlikely that he could return to her island. It had been mere chance, or his mother's doing, that had brought him here anyway. Now he was willingly leaving behind one of the only women, beyond Morgaine and Gwenhwyfar, to have touched his heart. Morgaine was a friend, albeit an attractive friend-he could not deny her appeal-but a friend nonetheless, one that kept him grounded in his familial traditions and sought to understand the world through his eyes. Gwenhwyfar held promise of something more. There was an air of forbidden mystery about her and deep down he wanted to pursue that mystery, despite the danger. Lady was different. She knew him only as a man, not a dream, and not a childhood playmate. She knew of his deeds, though he had not told her; she could see more clearly than any other person he knew. Yet, despite her all seeing eye, she found in him a pleasurable companion.

He was not blind. He knew she found him attractive. He saw her shiver whenever they danced and his fingers brushed bare skin. He noticed how she leaned closer to him while they did menial chores about the castle together. He was not ignorant of her efforts to keep him engaged in conversation or her subtle ways of becoming more intimately connected with him. He was not blind, nor was he allowing her to do this on her own. He encouraged it, he found pleasure in it, and he felt enlivened by it. Her interest in him felt like a mixture of being washed in a cool river and doused in hot wine. She was wise and she was fair, she was beyond him in many ways, and yet she still felt drawn to him. That was most likely the highest compliment he would ever receive.

"Here?" She'd stopped and pointed down into what looked like a sinkhole.

They'd walked closer to the cliffs on the far side of the island, tracing down the edges of a small stream. The woods were sparse here, the land mostly populated by tall grass and flowering bushes. He looked back up at her nod and shrugged. She would know better than he what delights a sinkhole could provide. He released her hand and carefully began to pick his way down among the craggy rocks that lined the relatively small hole in the ground. As he descended he heard the sound of trickling water. When he paused and looked down, tracing the beam of sunlight to the bottom, he found himself staring into his own distant reflection. Movement above him reminded him that Lady would descend quickly after and so he hurried down until he could jump the remaining few feet to the pebbly bottom.

He looked to his left and his eyes strained to find the end of what looked to be a narrow though long cavern filled with intricately connected pools of fresh, flowing water. The pools were varying shades of blue and turquoise green and they cascaded past him to his right until they slithered out underneath a rock and out into what he assumed was the river. He bent down and dipped his hand in the blue water. It was tepid. A bit of steam caressed his face and he turned towards a turquoise pool. He touched the water and was surprised to find it quite warm, almost hot. He'd heard of pools such as this before but had never seen one. Lady had brought him to a cavern of springs, each a different temperature and color.

He heard her feet touch the pebbles behind him and he turned just in time to catch her as she wobbled forward slightly, her dress having gotten tangled in the last outcropping on the cavern wall. His hands braced against her waist and her hands pressed against his chest. He found their current position to be quite pleasurable, and in the glittering light he could see a blush touch her cheeks, but she broke it too quickly for him to remark on it. She turned and extracted her dress from the wall before turning and surveying the cavern as well. When she returned her gaze to him she was beaming.

"I take it that this is one of your favorite places on the island?" She'd started nodding before he could even finish his sentence, causing him to chuckle. "Well it is most beautiful." He turned his gaze back on her at the last of his sentence and he found her blushing again. She didn't often blush and so he took particular delight in rendering her so feminine. "Is there anything else in here that you care to show me? Hidden treasure? A cavern troll?" Though he attempted to keep his voice serious he knew that she could detect the glimmer of humor in his eyes.

She chuckled at him and shook her head. She suddenly placed her hands on his shoulders and turned him to face the left. When he tried to question and turn around again she merely turned him back to face the shadows of the cavern. He didn't know why she did this until he heard the sound of water splashing. He felt his gut tighten instinctively and knew without having to turn that she'd entered one of the pools. He moved slowly, afraid that if he moved too quickly this would all disappear into the recesses of a dream addled brain. When his eyes found hers again in the flickering sunlight he sucked in the breath he'd been holding. She'd discarded all her clothing except a thin white shift that did little to keep her "decent." Her hair was unbound and floating about her in the bluish water as she hovered upright facing him, her gaze soft but constant. A small, mischievous smile brushed her lips and she inclined her head towards him.

He still had yet to breathe normally, or form coherent sentences with mind or lips, but he understood her without having to speak. His stomach continued to clench and roll as he began to unlace his shirt. Her eyes did not waiver and this did not ease the building tension in his gut. She watched him as he pulled off his boots, unlaced and pulled off his breeches, and discarded his shirt. It when he was clad only in his trews, the wavering beams of sunlight warming his bare skin, that her gaze flickered. It did not pull away but instead fell down then back up his body, her face flushing and her eyes darkening the longer she stared at him. He'd never been looked at in quite this manner. It robbed him of breath and made his insides burn with anticipation.

He moved towards her as if in a spell, his body entering the pool before he quite realized what he was doing. The water was tepid as it lapped at his skin, but it did nothing to quell the fire inside. The pool was deeper than he expected, his feet only barely grazing the sand-like bottom. He floated closer to her, their gaze still not parting from one another, but did not reach out for her. She'd started this, though he had no objections in the slightest, and he would let her set the pace of whatever "this" was. It took every ounce of control to not reach out and trace his fingers down the column of her ivory throat; not to follow the droplets of water on her face with his lips; not to wrap his arms around her and soak in the warmth of her body. He was a knight with great resolve, he could allow this mysterious lady to set the pace of their joining.

He knew they would become one here. She'd walked with purpose and had only sought to show him this place on the day he'd announced his departure. She would not have peeled away the layers of clothing and emotion like this if she did not expect them to fully join. His heart ached from the level of meaning this act would hold, for both of them. It would be the purest form of making love that he had ever encountered, and would perhaps ever participate in. Any woman that came into his life after this one would pale, he knew that without having to touch her. Having her passionate gaze on him as they circled each other in the water, their hands only occasionally brushing, made him certain of all this.

He didn't know how long it took for her to find the resolve to touch him. Time had either stopped or raced on without them. She'd circled behind him and when her fingers lightly traced against the taunt skin of his stomach he'd nearly submerged from the shiver of pleasure it shot through him. He kept his arms out to his sides but his feet finally found purchase on the floor beneath him. He felt her press closer, first her legs brushing the backs of his, then her chest on his back, as her arms wrapped more securely around him, her hands flattening against his chest. He reached down with one of his hands and laid it over hers where it rested over his heart. He knew she would feel his heart racing and from where her chest was so closely pressed against his back he could feel hers beating at a matching pace.

There was no rush in their movements. They'd descended into a haze of passion, unhurried and sweet. Every movement was drawn out, every touch memorized. Until his dying day he would remember how she slid in front of him, her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her legs equally wrapping around his waist. He would remember her lips against the skin of his neck, her body flush against his.

The memory of their first kiss, seared into the recesses of his brain from the intensity it held, robbing them both of thought and breath. His hands descended on her, pulling her tighter against him as their kiss deepened. He could not hold her close enough it seemed. He could not get enough of the taste her or of the feel of her in his arms. He could die a happy man in the morning after this.

Their kisses soon were not enough and touches became bolder, holding more purpose. The last of their clothing was shed and soon it was skin on skin, the water caressing around them. The memories of the following would blend together, forming a mass of pure sensation and emotion. How they'd finally joined, their moans mixing in with the sound of the trickling water. Their breaths escaping them at the same time as the intensity built. Their cries of satisfaction and completion echoing off the cavern walls after the climax of their journey.

He would relive it time and again, treasure it more closely than anything else. He was filled with her light and she reflected it back to him. They did not depart from the cavern for some time. They tested out a number of the pools, taking turns washing one another, exploring each others bodies, memorizing all the contours and textures. It was dark by the time they returned to the castle, no longer two but one. They ate a hearty dinner then adjourned to bed. They did not part. They enjoyed their last night to its fullest, exploring new ways of robbing each other of breath, of eliciting moans of pleasure or cries of delight. When they did finally sleep, it was tangled up in each others arms, unknowing of where one body stopped and the other began.


	10. The Wolf Arrives

_Timeline of events have been passed over and woven together like the tapestries. The man depicted here resembles the "Merlin" series but has backstory of both "Mists of Avalon" as well as "Merlin" and Mallory._

* * *

Time, life, and love, they are all like rivers: flowing, changing, rushing, slowing, curving, dropping, and ceasing. Lancelot had not stayed, no matter the bond they'd forged in the cavern. The call of glory was too great to be ignored. He was desperate to change the fate he'd glimpsed in the tapestries, though she feared that very desire to change things would only cause them to happen more quickly. Usually when one set out to be the opposite of what was expected they ended up becoming the very thing they did not want to become, and this was what she feared Lancelot would do.

Though the parting had been painful, both of them lingering in touch and looks, he was gone now and had been for the length of time it'd taken her to make two more tapestries. More births, more deaths, more lives lived in the shadow of her tapestries. He'd appeared in both tapestries, making his mark on the kingdom surrounding her isle. He was well connected to those in power and had not waited long before striking out on the journey to seize renown. He'd not given into his desire for the woman connected to Arthur, had even died for her in fact. She'd cried as she weaved that moment, her tears dampening the threads and making it difficult to finish. What hurt more was when he'd been brought back as only a portion of himself and was used horribly by the woman sorceress, wreaking pain and destruction on Arthur and the woman he loved. Merlin had saved his soul, allowing him to depart back to Avalon in the end, but not before much pain had been felt by all.

Darkness was now looming on the edges of her tapestries. Something had been spawned at the Beltane Rites, as Lancelot had called them, something that had been suckled on vengeance and petty vanity. Something that could've linked the tapestries into peace was now threatening to tear them apart. The dark tapestry at the end of her great hall was looking more and more like it would come to pass. Perhaps fate was inevitable. There was a battle, a great battle, that was being fought even now and she had yet to see the end, had yet to weave it into existence. She feared for Arthur, grieved for the fallen Lancelot.

She was de-scaling the fish she'd caught earlier when she heard the knock. At first she'd fancied it the wind but then, as the knocking continued in an insistent and constant manner, she realized that it could not be the wind. While she discarded the fish on the table, she kept the knife in her hand as she moved from the buttery out through the corridor towards the main door. She did not know who it would be, friend or foe, as she had never had visitors aside from Lancelot's accidental arrival. It certainly wouldn't be Merlin, he never knocked nor did he arrive by conventional means, and the Lady of the Lake had only ever visited her once with Merlin.

She took a deep breath and hid the knife in the folds of her gown before she pulled the latch from the door and swung it open. A figure fell in a heap upon the floor at her feet. She glanced past the figure to see if any others lurked in the dusk but none appeared from the shadows. The figure moaned and rolled over at her feet. It was a man, dark in features and apparel. She leaned down and laid a hand on his shoulder. He moved suddenly, his hand latching onto her wrist and tugging her down. With violent force, he rolled her over his body and rolled with her until his body hovered over her with a knife at her throat.

She blinked up at his fierce features, reading anger and wariness in his eyes and determination in the set of his jaw. He didn't know where he was, that much was certain, and he didn't know if she was to be trusted. She did not feel fear though and he must've sensed that when she poked her own knife more firmly against his side; in the fall, she'd retrieved her own knife and had maneuvered her hand up into its present position.

"Who are you?" He snarled, his grip on his knife not lessening though he did shift his weight slightly in his efforts to retreat from her knife point. She shook her head, opening her mouth and making a croaking sound. He raised an eyebrow, "You are mute?" At her nod he continued, "Are you alone?" Figuring it would be best not to lie to him while he had a knife at her throat she nodded again. "Who are you? Where am I?"

She coughed, her eyes darting from his dark eyes down to the knife gleaming at her throat. He sensed her silent request and eased up on his grip and lifted his body weight away from her just enough for her to roll out from under him and kneel on the cold floor beside him. He watched her movements as a predator would watch its prey and she marveled at how different her current visitor was from the last.

Why would Merlin allow this man to come to her isle? With Lancelot she had shown him what could be with the hopes that he would alter his own choices to alter what had been, was she to do the same with this snarling man? Where Lancelot had been like a golden lion and she the mouse removing the thorn from its paw, this man was like an eclipsed moon, mysterious and dangerous, just shy of erupting with destructive force.

She stood and waited until he stood as well. She moved slowly, so that he could clearly see, as she tucked her knife into the belt at her waist. He mirrored her actions and returned his dagger to its sheath. He was clad in leather armor with a dark cloak about his shoulders, his hair shaggy about his clean shaven face. He had fine features, though they contained much ferocity; she had the feeling that if he ever smiled that he would be considered handsome indeed. There appeared to be a wound in his gut, given the tear in his clothing and the crusted blood set about the hole. Physically he did not seem to notice the wound however, not from the way he stood firmly on his feet and glared at her.

She moved around him, back to the door, which she quickly shut and latched again. He kept his eyes on her, his fingers never straying far from his dagger or sword hilts. She wondered what sort of man he was if he felt the need to be so cautious, so wary, and towards a woman. After she finished with the door she gestured for him to follow her. She would take him to the Great Hall immediately. She would not tarry with this man as she had with Lancelot, and would move even faster than she had with Arthur. Something told her that this man needed to see the reality of her existence before she even attempted to offer him respite.

His eyes darted from side to side, his head cocked as if listening for the sounds of footsteps other than their own. She supposed she couldn't blame him; it was not common for a woman to live in a castle alone. When they reached the doors to the Great Hall she noticed that his hand had strayed down to the hilt of his sword again and she smirked at his suspicion, though she did not hesitate in throwing open the doors. She casually walked in, accustomed to the sight of absolute desertion aside from the tapestries in the room. She heard him carefully follow her once he knew there were no others lurking in the corners of the room.

"What is this place?" He did not disguise the distrust and confusion in his voice and she quickly led him to the first tapestry, the one that blended her arrival with the beginnings of the story that he was most certainly caught up in.

It was only after their arrival in the Great Hall that she'd realized who this man was. He was the spawn of the Beltane Rites, he was the darkness lurking, he was the threat to the world that surrounded her enchanted isle. She didn't know if seeing just where he fit in the story would cause him to alter his future decisions or if it would renew his desire to bring about the change he wanted, by any means necessary. It was not her job to change fate; it was her job to record the fateful choices of the lives around her and perhaps show them how these decisions affected the world as a whole. Did she hope that the tapestry at the end of the hall would not prove truthful? Yes, she wished that with all her heart and that was why she so willingly showed the tapestries now.

She stood in the middle of the Hall as he continued to study each tapestry in turn, pausing here and there to take in greater detail. When he came to the tapestry depicting the Beltane Rites and the time immediately after, he'd stopped as if stuck to the stones. His already white face had drained of all color and she thought she saw him sway slightly. The moment passed quickly and he moved on to the tapestries after this, his face turning from white to red the closer he got to the latest tapestry she'd hung. When he finished he was fairly close to the old tapestry at the end of the hall. He glanced at her briefly before he walked up the steps to study it. It was the same as when he'd studied her tapestries, pausing here and there to take in greater detail, until he came to the end. He did sway this time, clearly moved by the scene of destruction and death at the end of the tapestry. When he faced her again his features were awash with a myriad of emotions: fear, awe, anger, and confusion. She could see in him both man and child, desperate to find his place in a world that would not accept the truth of his existence.

"What are you?" It wasn't even a question of _who_ anymore, not for him. After seeing the magic of her tapestries he knew quite well that she was not of this world.

She gestured for him to follow him again and, with one last glance over his shoulder at the darkness behind him, he followed. She noticed that his step was heavier now, his shoulders seeming to have slumped under a great weight. His eyes did not dart as quickly and he did not seem to listen as much as before, his wariness having melted into something turned inward. She could not tell what he was feeling at the moment but she was sure he was battling something internal.

She led him to her tower, her latest weave only partially done. His face drained of all color as he took in the violent scene partially completed on the weave in the loom. He, unlike Lancelot, boldly walked in and even touched her loom, his fingers tracing over the strands of the delicate thread before he turned and explored each "corner" of the circular room. As he touched this and that in the room she retrieved the cloth she'd embroidered when Lancelot had been there. When he turned back to face her she handed him the cloth, her fingers tracing over the words.

"Lady of Shallot?" She nodded and pointed to the first word. "Lady? Your name is Lady?" She nodded and allowed him to study the cloth in silence. After a few moments he glanced up and around himself again before a slight shudder shook his shoulders and he hastily handed the cloth back. "You are an enchantress? A druid?" He did not quite sound accusatory but she got the feeling that he did not much trust much. She shrugged and his eyes narrowed, "How else could you be privy to all these things?" He gestured into the air, obviously referring to the events of the world around her. She shrugged again and he sighed. They stood in silence for a few moments longer before he ran a hand through his hair, "What do you want from me?" She raised an eyebrow and he dropped his hand, "You brought me here from my deathbed! What must I do to leave here?" She shrugged again and he glared at her, "Surely you know why I'm here and what I must do to leave."

She took a deep breath before slowly letting it out. Her stomach growled and she suddenly remembered her fish in the buttery. She gestured for him to follow but she didn't wait to see if he would before she turned and hurried down the steps. Perhaps he would also feel better after a meal. She still wasn't sure how he'd ended up on her isle. Lancelot had arrived via the river, and Arthur by enchantment, while this man appeared to have walked, and that was not possible. Perhaps Merlin had directly transported him in much the same way he'd originally transported Arthur. The man mentioned he'd been on his deathbed, which would explain the mortal wound in his gut that seemed to be giving him no trouble now that he was on her isle. Did that mean that the battle was over? What had been the outcome?

Upon arriving in the buttery, she immediately set about cleaning up the mess she'd made and finishing the task from earlier. He watched in silence from the door and she was content to leave him to his own devices as she continued to make a meal big enough for two. It wasn't until she had two mugs of ale and two plates of food on the table that he moved closer. She sat and offered him a slight smile, gesturing for him to sit. He did so but still made no move touch the food or drink.

She sighed and reached across the table, noting how he tensed slightly with her movements. She maintained eye contact as she took a sip from his mug and then used her knife to spear a portion of his fish and took a bite. She sat back and stared at him for a moment before she made a choking noise and fell over. She heard him leap to his feet and she smiled. She sat back up, laughing at his distress, before she waved for him to sit back down.

"You jest?" He sounded incredulous and she nodded, her smile not wavering, even in the face of his gloomy frown. After a moment, he tentatively sat back down and watched as she began eating. He waited a little longer, at least until she was half done with her meal, before he began to pick at the food.

They ate in silence, since she was obviously not the best at conversation given current circumstances. He seemed to be content with the silence, however, as most likely his thoughts were turned inward still, at least if she were to judge by his glazed expression. Once they were both finished with the food she removed their cutlery and dishes and refilled his mug and her own. She moved to sit closer to the fire and he did the same, sitting in the seat that both Lancelot and Arthur had once used. She felt her heart tug slightly, her inward eye seeing Lancelot smiling over at her with mischief, while with her outward eye she saw this man glaring moodily into the fire.

It was only after they finished their third round of drinks that he spoke again, his dark eyes moving from the fire to search out her own, "I am Mordred."


	11. The First Taming

_Mordred appears like the actor from "Merlin" but much of his backstory is in line with "Mists of Avalon."_

* * *

He understood enough from his "mother" and his true mother that there were two worlds existing at any given time. There was the world most mortals saw and thrived in and then there was the world the fae lived in, where magic dwelled, where only a few outsiders had the privilege of entering and understanding without being driven mad. As a druid he was a child of both worlds and was well acquainted with the sensations either world brought. Sitting close to the fire, with the mute woman by his side, Mordred knew he was in the latter world.

His quest for vengeance against a man who had yet to acknowledge him had been put aside by his unexpected arrival in this strange place. Surely his sword had found its mark in Arthur at the last battle, just as surely as Arthur's had found its way into his own gut. He'd been falling into the welcome darkness of death when he'd suddenly awakened in a mist in a stone circle on the peak of this isle. He knew quite well what sorts of things happened in mists. When the mists had receded he had no longer been with Arthur, dying together in the darkness, but instead lying in a stone circle before what looked like a deserted castle.

An especially loud clap of thunder and bright flash of lightning had made him move closer to the possible safety of the castle. With no other choice, Mordred had investigated it. There were very few lights evident from the outside but something about the castle drew him, assuring him that there was a sort of haven from the storm inside. Surprise did not come often to Mordred but having nearly been bested by a woman in the ensuing scuffle for dominance had indeed surprised him. Almost from the moment of his first seeing her, he'd known she existed within the latter world, the one of magic and mystery, but that did not mean she was not a risk to him.

Lady, she wanted to be called, if her gestures and sewing's could be trusted. Mute, either by choice or magic, she relied upon body language and subtle gestures to convey her ideas. She did not appear to respond to his telepathy as a druid would and Mordred found the silence deafening, so used to his "mother's" prattling and planning or his own internal dialogue of self-hatred, this silence made his own mind sizzle with shouts unshouted and cries uncried. Seeing the magical tapestries in the great hall did nothing to silence these notions. In fact, his mind reeled with what he'd seen. Everything he'd thought existed only in the darkness of his mind had been stitched onto cloth for anyone to see—though he understood enough about magic to know that only a few had seen these particular tapestries. His life, and the lives of those before him-including his own origins-had been painstakingly stitched. There had also been an older, alternate tapestry. One that left his blood cold. Could it be that he and Arthur had brought that future to pass? In his quest for vengeance had he overlooked alternative possibilities somewhere? He shook the doubts away and turned his glare away from the fire and onto the woman sitting beside him.

"Do know who I am?" he asked after his introduction.

Lady stared at him a moment longer before she nodded, her eyes grave. He felt judged then, by this woman of silence and magic, this woman who knew his secret ambitions and fears. She saw more of his soul than he understood of himself and that fact both frightened and angered him. He stood and was upon her within seconds, his hands closing around her throat, hauling her upwards and closer to his snarling face.

"So then, what do you think of me?" She reached up her own hands to grab hold of his wrists but made no further attempt to free herself, though he felt sure that if she so wanted she could be free. "Do you find me as repulsive as all those in Camelot will now that its over? Am I a mockery of all that is good and clean in this world?"

She continued to stare at him, her eyes unblinking, until finally, after their eyes had battled for understanding and dominance, she squeezed his wrists and he surprised himself by letting go. He didn't move away as she rubbed lightly at her now reddened neck. She was beautiful, in a wispy sort of way, though he could sense that she had an inner strength that he begrudgingly found himself already respecting. He watched in surprise when she looked back up at him, a soft smile on her lips. Either she was mad, driven so by use of magic, or she knew something he did not. The idea of being at a disadvantage to anyone, including this woman, made his stomach clench in anxiety.

"Why do you smile? I could kill you." His hand drifted down to his dagger hilt and even as his fingers wrapped around it he saw that no fear passed over her face. "Do you not fear me? Do you not fear death?"

At the mention of death she seemed to sober slightly and she shook her head. She stood slowly and as he refused to step back he found that they were near touching noses once she was standing fully. She eyed him for some time and he was surprised at his allowance of such open studying. Usually he would glower or snarl when others studied him, their eyes straying over features that bore startling resemblance to two people far too close in blood to have properly created such a thing together.

Lady cleared her throat and gestured past him. When he still didn't move, or look to where she was pointing, she sighed and reached out. At first he flinched, hand clenching at the dagger hilt, but when she merely pushed at his shoulder until he was facing in the same direction as she, his fingers relaxed. She stayed by his side, neither in front or behind, as she made her way across the kitchen to the door. He didn't question her until sometime later when they were standing in the doorway of a bedroom.

"You expect me to sleep here?" Surely she was mad if she thought he trusted her enough to leave him alone.

She eyed his glare, his aggressive stance, and sighed. She shrugged her shoulders in the face of his distrust and turned away. She left the candle with him as she moved off into the shadows. He found himself following; to assure himself of her whereabouts was his personal excuse, until she paused in front of a doorway further down the corridor. She glanced back at him in curiosity and when he merely returned her look with a glare she again sighed before throwing open the door and entering. It was a bedroom as well, in similar decoration and set up as the one she'd tried to deposit him in earlier, though this one had a few more personal touches that belied her frequent usage of it.

"You sleep here?" He asked, though he already knew the answer. She nodded and watched as he took a turn around the room, opening a few baskets and cupboards. He told himself it was to make sure she had no weapons hidden away, to be used against him in the night, but even he knew it was a stalling ploy. He was not ready to be alone with his own thoughts, the deafening silence only slightly at bay while he was in her presence. "How do I know that you won't try to kill me in my sleep?" he snarled in her direction, suddenly overcome with fear born on the wings of confusion and doubt.

She observed him with her knowing eyes, which were both a comfort and an insult to him. It was only a moment later before she seemed to have made a decision and closed the door. He kept the candle in hand, though his other hovered near his dagger. The storm continued outside but in this room the sound of cloth rustling as it was pulled away from skin was like a roar.

Too stunned to speak, Mordred watched as Lady undressed until she stood before him in a thin shift, transparent whenever it brushed against her skin. She was most definitely of the magical world, he felt certain of it. The sight of her standing there in the candle light, so vulnerable yet peaceful in his presence, was branded into his mind. She'd kept her eyes on him as she'd done this, her movements slow and steady, and he found that it was he that was shaking now that the deed was done. She turned slowly, allowing him to take in her whole form, before she faced him again, that small smile of understanding alighted on her lips again.

"You wanted me to know that you were unarmed?" His voice was thick, the words like cotton in his suddenly dry mouth. At her eager nod he fought against a smile. This woman, Lady, was truly a mystery. She'd teased him about his overly cautious nature by pretending to be poisoned, she'd smiled in the face of his violent anger, and now she'd fought against his distrust by making herself vulnerable. How did she know that he wouldn't try to molest her? Why would she make herself so weak to a man such as he? His mind buzzed again, threatening to explode into shouts and growls, and he found himself sitting down in a chair by the small fire place in the room.

As his mind cleared, he saw Lady standing by her bed, nibbling on her lower lip in obvious indecision. A moment passed before she shrugged and crawled into her own bed, curling up under the blankets as if he were no longer in the room. Fascinated by her apparent ease, he watched as she rolled over onto her side, her back towards him. He waited for some time, wondering if there was more to her performance but when nothing more than a soft snore came from the lumpy form, he stood and left the room.

He had many questions, he also had answers to questions unasked, but none of the clarity he desired would come to him tonight. He didn't know why he was here, at such a pivotal time in his life, but perhaps Lady offered some answers. As he lay down, the candle glowing dimly on the table by the bed, he wondered just what sort of woman Lady would prove to be.


	12. The Second Taming

_Timeline wise: the final battle between Mordred and Arthur has already been fought and "won" and Lancelot has been "dead" for some time. Mordred appears like the actor from "Merlin" but much of his backstory is in line with "Mists of Avalon."_

* * *

Mordred had proven exceedingly difficult to live with. From the very moment he'd seen her, he'd fought her and that tendency had not changed in the days that had passed since then. Every morning she woke to find him already in her room glaring as if in indecision of whether or not he was going to kill her or trust her. He would sit in the chair as she dressed or undressed, as if it were perfectly normal to watch a stranger do these things, his eyes taking in her every feature, but never reaching out to touch her, nor did he comment on her form. Perhaps he needed the reassurance that she wasn't tucking away weapons to use against him; though he never commented on the dagger she kept strapped to her side so maybe it wasn't that after all. Maybe he'd never seen many women beyond that of his surrogate family-she did know who he was after all-and was satisfying curiosity. She doubted it was something as simple as that, but she could not begin to guess what it truly was, for fear of either over simplifying or over complicating the man.

He walked around in a haze of frustration and barely suppressed violence. She didn't fear his violence though. She knew that whatever magic Merlin had bestowed upon her weaving would protect her as well, so long as she did not look down towards Camelot. Aside from his growling and glaring, he'd yet to actually physically harm her, and he'd had plenty of opportunity. Mordred shadowed her every moment, questioning her routines and commenting on the many ways she did things incorrectly or how she could be more efficient. When she sat weaving, he sat in a chair just behind her by the window, alternately staring out the window and at her, always finding something negative to say about either her weaving or about the weather. Her food was always lacking in taste or texture, her cleaning was never thorough, and her very existence seemed to irk him greatly. He was most certainly determined to be miserable while secluded to her isle.

She, however, was determined to find ways to further frustrate him. She'd found a twisted pleasure in his glowering in response to something she'd done. She knew that if he was glowering at her then he was not being tortured mentally-she perceived that he most likely did subject himself to self-hatred. And so she took it upon herself to make his life equally miserable, if not more so. If her cleaning was not thorough she would be sure to clean less the next day, if her food lacked in taste or texture she would purposefully either leave out all seasonings or would add excessive amounts, if her weaving was so atrocious she would, in the few spare moments of time she snatched when he wasn't with her, stitch out scenes depicting him doing something ridiculous, like falling off a horse or walking into a wall, and would leave these bits of cloth in obvious places where she was sure he'd find them. He had yet to comment on them though, and she was sure he'd seen them, and that was a most curious thing since in all other things he was so vocal.

The last tapestry was finished. The battle had been fought and Mordred had indeed been grievously wounded by Arthur, and Arthur in turn by Mordred. Merlin had tried to save Arthur but he'd succumbed to his wounds not long after Mordred had appeared on her isle. Merlin sent him on to Avalon, to join Lancelot and his other fallen knights in the kingdom of mists with the Lady of the Lake, while his queen ruled in his stead. She appeared to be a fine rule, thus far at least, and with Merlin at her side would hopefully not make the same mistakes as her husband.

Lady was curious as to why Mordred had be brought here instead of being sent on to Avalon, or left to dwell in the darkness between the worlds. What did Merlin intend or hope for by suspending Mordred's existence here with her? Also, now that the future had occurred, albeit slightly different from that depicted on the older tapestry, what else must she do here? Did she continue to weave? Did she seek death and look towards Camelot?

Perhaps her own questioning of life and the future had her surly responses to Mordred seem such a welcome distraction. They'd fallen into a routine of sorts, both of them trying to make the other one miserable but in turn finding a twisted type of delight in the process. It was a most curious thing; something she'd never encountered before. She was sure someone somewhere would call their routine twisted and upside down but for whatever reason it worked for them.

Today would be different. Upon last checking the buttery, she'd discovered that another hunt was required. She knew Mordred would accompany her, and hopefully knew how to hunt and wouldn't prove detrimental in her efforts. She was curious as to how he would react to seeing her in breeches and tunic. When she opened her eyes and glanced to the side he was already in "his" chair, poking at the embers in the hearth. He must've sensed a change in her breathing and looked up. Something changed in his eyes upon seeing her awake but she still had yet to really understand his moods or looks to know what it meant. She, however, kept her own moods and "thoughts" open and obvious. Not being able to speak made her more likely to be less subtle about those sorts of things.

She offered him a small smile as she stood and stretched. She knew he was watching but this did not cause her to blush or to draw out the movements that she knew would most likely look sensuous if taken out of context. Instead, once she felt the aches and creaks ebb away, she moved away from her bed and over to the trunk that was situated close to his chair. This was new to him, as she'd never moved to this particular trunk with him in the room, so he watched her more intently. When she pulled out the breeches and tunic he raised his brows.

"You are going to dress in these?" She nodded before turning and heading back to the bed where she dropping the articles. It would be tricky, getting into the breeches and tunic with him in the room. She would have to pull them up under her shift and then turn away from him to pull the shift off in order to get her tunic on. She was not a blushing virgin though, and so was not overly worried about the process. "Why?" He asked from behind her. She turned and made a gesture of shooting a bow and arrow and he nodded in understanding. "We are going to hunt today." She smiled to herself at his usage of the plural tense but made no further attempt to communicate.

Instead, she began to dress, pulling the breeches up under her shift. She kept her back to him, not sure if she could handle the change in his gaze again while dressing. There were moments, when he was looking at her, that she felt a tugging inside, not quite like what she'd felt with Lancelot to be sure, but it was a tugging none the less. Breeches in place, she paused a moment before she shrugged and tugged her shift over her head and dropped it on the bed in front of her. She reached down for her tunic and was just about to pull it over her head when suddenly she felt him close behind her. There was no mistaking it, the warmth from his body mingling with hers, the sound of his breath so close to her ears; he now stood directly behind her.

"What happened?" his question confused her and she did not immediately respond until she felt the faintest of touches, his fingertip, tracing down between her shoulder blades. It took a moment to recall what exactly he could be talking about but then, with startling clarity, she remembered the events prior to her arrival on Shalott and she shuddered. The horror of that time, the violent manner of her would-be death, had been shoved aside for so long that it took a moment to recover from the force of the memory.

His fingers found another scar, longer than the first, darting diagonally across her lower back until it wrapped around her side. His fingers only traced part of the scar, ceasing before it reached her side. She worked to control her breathing, the combination of gentle touch over the remnants of torture nearly too much for her. She hadn't felt this emotional since before Lancelot. Things had thus far been in her control while on the island, carefully measured and implemented. But with one question and one touch, Mordred had managed to thrust her back into the uncertainty of mortality.

When she continued to stand still, her breath slightly erratic, Mordred took matters into his own hands. He traced over more scars until he'd mapped out the majority that were on her back. She did not fight when she felt him tug at her shoulders, turning her until she faced him fully. She also did not bother to cover her partial nudity. She was not worried about violence from him. She was also not concerned over a possible molestation. Whatever this was, it was not being done with sexual intent. She watched his eyes widen at the sight of her chest, his eyes first settling on the would-be hole centered over her heart then traveling down over her breasts to her stomach where there were faint lines marking past knife wounds. If he'd previously doubted the "miracle" of her existence on the island he most likely did not now. Anyone, after having seen her naked flesh, would understand that only magic would've healed her.

"What," he reached out, and she fought against the urge to flinch, and gently touched the marred flesh above her heart, "happened to you?"

How could she describe the events without a voice? The complicated disaster that her life prior had become up until her "death"? Parts of it she couldn't even remember; at times it felt as if she'd always been the Lady of the Isle, and she wondered if it was the magic that was influencing her memory thusly. She stared back into his questioning eyes, the frown on his lips she knew was not meant for her but for those who'd inflicted the scars, and she found herself smiling. It was a sad smile, the smile of one who'd lived through hell and only kept it at bay by daily distractions.

Mordred must've sensed her reluctance or inability to explain, as well as her acceptance of whatever had happened. He pulled his fingers away from her skin and stood still, his chest barely moving with breath. She was surprised that she somehow felt colder without his slight touch and she filed away this bit of information for later perusal. He continued to stare at her a moment or two longer before he gave her a slight bow and walked past her to the door.

He left her alone without another word. It was the first time since his arrival that she would be able to dress without his observance. Did he now trust her to not tuck away weapons? Did he now respect her enough to leave her in privacy? Dazed, and more than a little curious about what exactly had transpired between them and its implications, she turned back to the bed and resumed dressing. After, she plaited her hair quickly and tossed it over her shoulder before pulling up her boots and tucking away her dagger.

He wasn't waiting for her just outside her door as she'd expected him to be, nor was he in the armory where she retrieved her bow and arrows. She idly wondered if he'd deserted the castle, and her, until she found him hovering by edge of the woods directly across from the bridge outside the castle. She smiled to herself as she hurried towards him; he was glowering again. He glanced up at her approach but made no attempt at conversation. Perhaps his mind was reeling with self-doubt and hatred again. She gestured towards the woods and without a backwards glance headed deeper into them. Hopefully the hunt would clear his mind as it always did hers.


	13. The Wounded Wolf

_According to Mallory Avalon is a real place where the souls of the fallen knights of Camlot dwell until the time that Arthur is to return, I am drawing upon that in this story. Mordred appears like the actor from "Merlin" but much of his backstory is in line with "Mists of Avalon."_

* * *

A jab of pain brought him back to the world of the living. He'd seen Arthur and his knights in Avalon. They'd glimpsed him as well, had cried out in joyous sorrow at his arrival. He'd expected hatred from the men he'd slain but had instead been welcome with open arms, the smiles bestowed upon him full of forgiveness. From Arthur he'd received an especially warm welcome, beckoning him to stay and feast with them. The temptation to stay with them, in this strange land full of hope and contentment, had played at the edges of his mind until he gasped in breath like a drowning man and with a jolt was thrown away from Arthur and the others. He cringed when the movement of his coughs caused more shivers of pain to run up and down his side. Mordred felt Lady's hands—how quickly he'd come to recognize her hands surprised him—press against his shoulders and heard her breathing near his ear. It took him a moment to recall just why he would be lying on his back with her tending to a wound. When another jab of pain rippled out from his side his eyes jerked open and he sucked his breath in between clenched teeth, a curse rumbling out on a growl.

It had been the hunt. His mind had not been on the hunt, he'd been dwelling on the scars he'd seen on Lady's body. Questions of what sort of life she'd once lived, what sort of violence she'd had to endure, and why the fae would give her of all people a second chance of life, weaving tapestries of life but not experiencing it, had clouded his mind. As he'd been tracing her scars he'd had an uneasy feeling, as if she were wearing the scars he felt were on his soul. She'd been dealt the blows meant for him. Of course that made no sense whatsoever, but still, that feeling had set heavily upon his shoulders.

The stag had taken him by surprise, Lady too. Instead of darting away at the sight of their presence it had charged them, its head lowered and hooves thundering against the forest floor. Lady had darted out of the way, accustomed to such moves, but Mordred had been sluggish in his. The stag had violently pinned Mordred against a tree before Mordred had even managed to unsheathe his dagger for defense. Then the pain of the stag's antler piercing his side had robbed him of breath and it had taken Lady's counterattack on the animal to free him. Yes they'd managed to kill the stag, or Lady had, but he'd only aided by getting wounded. Wounded by the stag twice, once by the man and once by the animal. What sort of wolf was he?

She'd left the stag in its own blood and had immediately helped him back towards the castle. He could only remember snatches of the journey, his consciousness at the time having weaved in and out with the waves of pain and loss of blood. He understood that they were now in his room, somehow she'd managed to get him up the stairs and undressed and into bed without him being aware of it. His wound had been cleaned and dressed and now he was lying propped up against pillows, Lady hovering by his side. There was definitely more to this woman than met the eye.

Lady pressed a cup to his lips and he drank greedily, fully expecting there to be a drought of something to ease the pain. As the cool liquid drained down his throat he felt his muscles easing and his body loosening. He nodded his thanks to her and closed his eyes as she laid his head back against the pillows behind him.

"You wear my scars, Lady." He spoke languidly, not bothering to shield his thoughts from becoming words—no matter how confusing they may sound aloud. "You should not have to bear such things." His hand shook slightly when he brought it up to smooth down his own face. He heard no noise from Lady but he well knew her to be there. "I wish," he dropped his hand onto his chest and winced at the pain that mere weight and movement caused, "I wish," he felt her take his hand and place it back at his side, her fingers tracing over his wrist in soothing motions, "oh how I wish…" His voice trailed off and he kept his eyes closed for a few moments longer, marking the passing of time with how his pain began to lessen.

When he heard Lady clear her throat he opened his eyes, thankful that the lids were heavy with sleep. He knew that sleep would bring healing, an ending to his pain, mental and physical. Perhaps she had done him that added favor and he would never wake this side of Avalon again.

"What is it?" his tongue felt thick in his mouth now and it took great effort to keep his words from slurring beyond comprehension.

She reached out and took hold of one of his hands and squeezed it. He observed her expression for some time before it dawned on him that she was blaming herself for his injury. Mordred shook his head and clasped her hand between both of his.

"It was not your fault Lady. My mind was elsewhere and I did not move quickly enough." He rubbed his thumb against the back of her hand, finding comfort in the repetitive action. "Once I am resting you should return and see if you can salvage any of the meat." She frowned at his suggestion but he merely smiled. "It would pain me even more if I knew that this wound was for nothing."

A moment passed before her eyes lit up at the understanding of his slight jest. She nodded. She turned her palm upward and entwined her fingers with his. He'd never held a woman's hand like this before. He'd never really been around many women beyond his "mother" and the servants of her household in fact. Watching her dress and undress over the passing days had been a source of fascination and temptation that had both delighted and frustrated him. Now the intimate gesture of such a simple act was new but not wholly unwelcome to him. Perhaps it was the drought of sleeping potion that made him welcome the touch without question. Perhaps it was something more. In either case, Mordred fell asleep with Lady's hands in his own and a strange sense of peace descending upon his soul. If he saw Arthur and his knights in Avalon this time he hoped he could have Lady by his side.


	14. To Heal a Wolf

_Mallory, "Mists," and "Merlin" all dictate the pace and events of this story._

* * *

She tended Mordred's wounds meticulously day by day, nursing him back to health with the patience of a saint. As he'd drifted in and out of consciousness she'd again wondered why Merlin would bring him here, if he only meant for him to die a second time at the hands of yet another stag. The Great Dragon had visited her the day before, informing her of her freedom to leave now that all things had come to pass as they should, that she no longer had to stay on the isle and weave. He also informed her of the passage to Avalon that she could take if she chose to. She need only look to the south and sail away and she'd come to Avalon's shore through the mists.

With this information in mind, the uncertainty of what she wanted, Mordred was no easy patient, keen to complain and critique her efforts to keep him alive. By this time in their acquaintance Lady well knew that that was just his way, the only way he knew how to express himself—fed on acidic malice towards life would only breed such behavior in a man.

Knowing of his origins, Lady was surprised at the moments of softness or kindness from him that did come. As when instead of lashing out at her for jostling his cot after one particularly trying wound redressing he instead apologized for causing her to stumble, when in fact he had not. Equally surprising was the change that she saw in his eyes that had occurred since the accident. No longer did she see distrust lurking at the corners of his gaze; no longer did she sense a darkness hovering over his head. Instead, dare she say it, she sensed a tentative hope.

Not wanting to scare away this change in him Lady did not remark on it or draw attention to it. Instead she maintained her habit of stirring up just enough ire in him to get a reaction, but not so much as to truly offend. Mordred, in turn, maintained his habit of teasing and chastising her. Confined as he was to his bed, his chastisement was often harsher than before, but again Lady was surprised at the gentleness she sensed behind his words.

The "wolf" seemed to enjoy her presence now, lapping it up with suppressed delight, and Lady enjoyed his. She felt an ease with Mordred that she had not felt with Lancelot. He had no expectations of an ideal woman and sought after that ideal. For Mordred it was reality that he was attracted to, not the dream. There was no domesticity in their routine, not like with Lancelot. There was nothing "normal" about their exchanges. Everything had an element of the unknown in it, as if they both were seeking to surprise the other.

Another change had been Lady's own reaction to Mordred's touch. Whereas before she had merely registered it as a touch now, ever since he'd seen her scars as well as the hunting incident, she felt a curious warmth buzzing out from any area he happened to touch. It was if an energy current went directly from Mordred's skin into her own. She knew he felt the same, or at least her theory was that he felt the same.

Seeking to test her theory—as she was often more of an analyst than she was a romantic—she had just removed his own wound dressing and instead of immediately replacing it with fresh dressing Lady leaned forward and drew a wet cloth across Mordred's pale skin. She did this for two reasons, and only one was legitimate. It had been some time since Mordred had been able to bathe and in order to keep the wound from putrefying it must be kept clean. Secondly, Lady wanted confirmation that the energetic warmth she felt from his touch was not isolated to her alone.

"You must find me truly horrifying if you now feel the need to bathe me." Mordred's voice now held an almost breathy quality to it whereas moments before, when he'd been remarking upon her lack of gardening skills his voice had held a playful lilt. "Please, Lady, allow me to-" she swatted his hand away when it reached for the cloth. Resigned to her ministrations, Mordred leaned back and silently watched her as she returned to her work.

With slow, deliberate movements she drew the cloth in downward strokes across his chest, mindful of the tender edges of his wound. She kept her eyes on his skin, his smooth, alabaster skin, only marred by fresh scars from the stag and the wound inflicted by Arthur before his arrival. She did not yet want to meet his eyes. Through the cloth she could feel his warmth, the contours of his muscles, and the firmness of his body. She felt the warm energy tingle in her fingertips whenever they moved past the cloth and brushed directly against his skin.

Pausing for a moment to wet the cloth once more, Lady finally raised her eyes to meet Mordred's. She nearly dropped the cloth when she saw the intensity of his gaze; his dark orbs alight with unmistakable passion. His whole body was tense with restrained vigor and Lady noted that his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. Indeed, he must feel the same as she.

Though she knew she was dealing with a wounded "wolf", Lady continued in her ministrations. The cloth wet once more she scooted closer on the bed until she could easily reach his face. Cupping his face with one hand, with the other she gently dabbed at his skin. Instead of watching her own movements she kept her gaze locked with Mordred's, fascinated with the change in his eyes the closer her fingers drew to his lips on their circular path around his face.

She ceased her movements then and with her other hand she shyly traced a finger across his bottom lip, curious if it was a soft as it appeared. A low groan suddenly rumbled from his chest and Lady drew back her hand as if bitten. Mordred's own hand, previously held clenched in a fist at his side, reached up and snatched her wrist before she could pull away fully.

"Don't," his voice was low, a near whisper, "pull away," with his hand he tugged at her wrist and of her own volition Lady leaned closer until the warmth of his breath fanned out against her face, "please."

Never before had she heard such a word used by him and upon hearing it she felt all uncertainties fall away. With one last look into the depth of his eyes Lady closed the distance between them and pressed her lips against his.


	15. More than One

_Mordred is similar in features to "Merlin" and in backstory to "Mists of Avalon" and the place of Avalon is akin to Mallory._

* * *

His body thrummed with energy, a vibration that began on his skin and echoed in his soul—all traced back to the source: Lady's touch. Her lips were light against his, her fingers where they cupped his face equally light, as if she were afraid a firmer touch would harm him or cause him to stir away from her. He understood her reasons for gentility, her softness of approach. He had proven to be a surly and unpredictable guest, even after their tentative genial bond had formed. Now, Lady had broached new territory—offering up a new level of bond-ship between them—and she awaited his response.

Never before had he felt so discomfited in his own skin. He'd been taught the intricacies of swordsmanship to such a level he could fight many a foe with his eyes closed; the bow and arrow were also of equal levels of intimacy with his muscles and form. He'd been taught a few of the courtly dances, in order to fit in among those he'd long scorned.

However, his body, his mind, was unaccustomed to the soft touches of a woman. His "mother" had caressed as an owner did a pet and as for his true mother, he knew little affection from her. Through the years he'd had no time for the diversion of romance, or even the satisfaction of release with a common whore. Kara had been too quick, too fast, for him to register much the sensations of their touches. This was the first and because of this he had no idea how best to proceed. How did he respond best so that Lady understood he reciprocated her feelings, her desires, fully and completely? How did he fulfill his desire for fulfillment while also including her own? He was not unaware of the delicacies of the bedroom betweenst a man and woman; he had just not experienced them himself.

"Lady," he breathed out her name, his hands coming up to hold her face—either so that she could not draw away or so that she would come closer he didn't know yet. He pulled back just enough to stare into her eyes—he knew then that her eyes would be the last thing his mind sought out in memory before his death. They were open, earnest, full of warmth, full of tentative hope. He smiled at her, the feeling as foreign for his facial muscles as it was to be reflected in his heart—he felt true joy then, lying wounded at her mercy, her touches warming his body and soul. He smoothed a hand over her head, his fingers curling into her hair as it drew down to her shoulder. "I want to be with you," his eyes flickered downward and her eyes followed, taking in the evidence of his interest—he noted the slight blush that appeared on her cheeks as a result, "but," her eyes came back up to meet his, "I don't," he looked to the side—how he hated showing weakness even here, "know-"

His words were cut off when she pressed her lips against his again, this time more firmly and insistently. She carefully leaned against him, mindful of his wound, until he felt the material of her dress brush against his naked flesh. Immediately a shiver traveled through his body and he clenched and unclenched his fists as they hovered in the air on either side of her face, unsure of how to touch her with the immensity yet gentility he desired. After a moment he settled for cupping the back of her neck with one hand while the other settled firmly on her shoulder, drawing her closer.

She took charge of the kiss, deepening it further—he sucked in a breath when he felt her tongue swipe against his lips, moaning when she first explored his mouth with her tongue, tracing her tongue against his, brushing against the roof of his mouth—he no longer understood exactly what was happening only that every touch, every sigh, every moan would for many years hence be branded into his mind.

Only when air became a necessity did he allow her to pull away, though he no longer felt the earlier uncertainty clouding his impulses. The passion that had built up since the first brush of her lips now allowed him the surety of movement to trace his lips across her jaw line, then when she tilted her head to the side to press a soft kiss below her ear and to take in deeply the rich scent that was unique to her as his lips traveled downward until he rested them against the pulse point that was now throbbing rapidly in her neck.

Hearing a moaning sign escape her throat form his movement further emboldened him. His hand moved down from her shoulder to her ribs and he shifted in the bed—wincing only slightly from the movement—to allow her more room. As she settled against the pillows, half lying on the bed and still half sitting, he allowed his hands to roam down her side to her back, pressing her more firmly against his chest. His wound smarted with all their movements but not enough to deter either of them, though Lady appeared more mindful of it than he. She was careful when she touched him, her fingers firm but soft as they traced the contours of his skin, her lips mapping out the lines of his face and neck while he busied himself with the stays of her gown. When the strings knotted together in his haste to be rid of them she smiled and swatted his hand away. She stood then and he immediately missed her warmth.

He was not alone long though. Lady unknotted the strings and slid her dress from her body and then with it she drew her shift over her head, leaving her in nothing but that which she entered the world in, her skin. Marred though her skin may be he found her beautiful and even the scars held a mesmerizing pattern as they crisscrossed over her skin. She did not blush at his attention, nor did she attempt to hide herself from his gaze. She stood proud and sure, comfortable in her skin as she was comfortable with him looking at her. When he reached for her, unable to express exactly what it was he wanted with words, she melted back into his arms, this time straddling his hips in order to press against him intimately and fully.

They mouths melded together and he was robbed of all thought, all sense of time and place, the longer she pressed against him. Their touches flowed one into another, the heated sensations growing into a smoldering fire. Never before had he known such feelings, both in mind and body. He felt as if he were being baptized in her attention, washed clean in her affections. As they clung together, climbing to the heights of passion, he knew then that she would never leave him. He would stay with her on this cursed isle if that meant he could stay by her side. He would sail into death as well, if that was where she was to go. This woman, mouthing his name on panted breaths, was more than he deserved but he was never going to let her leave him nor would he leave her.


End file.
